


Devil may care

by sagestreet



Category: Torchwood
Genre: 1940s, Episode: s01e12 Captain Jack Harkness, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The Original Captain Jack Harkness lives, Time Travel, War Crimes, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:58:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 89,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagestreet/pseuds/sagestreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack returns to 1941 to rescue the real Captain Jack Harkness. But while the two of them are circling each other, uncertain as to what they want, they fail to notice the dark clouds gathering on the horizon …</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The flight

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on livejournal. For masterpost go to: http://sagestreet.livejournal.com/

**Title:** Devil may care

 **Author:** [sagestreet](http://sagestreet.livejournal.com/)

 **Pairing:** Jack/real!Captain Jack Harkness (mentions of  past Jack/Ianto; some Ianto/OC)

 **Rating:** PG-13 (for now)

 **Warnings:** (non-graphic) World War II imagery, language

 **Summary:** _Jack returns to 1941 to rescue the real Captain Jack Harkness. But while the two of them are circling each other, uncertain as to what they want, they fail to notice the dark clouds gathering on the horizon_ …

 

** Devil may care **

**Book I: Have any of us?**

Soundtrack: Leo Ornstein "Suicide in an Airplane"

**1\. Chapter: The flight**  
  
He was flying again, the howling wind enveloping him in its own sad freedom.  
  
Up.  
  
Finally … up.  
  
And away.

And off a ground that had seemed to tie him down with its depressing, dark gravity, trapping him in the deepest pit of Tartarus the very second he had left the Ritz dance hall and had escaped into the winter night, frantically searching for a sign, a trace, a something …

Running along the unlit street, Group Captain Jack Harkness of the RAF's No. 133 'Eagle' Squadron, the hero his men looked up to, had suddenly felt like a bird bereft of its wings: helpless and desperate, terribly alone and confused, breathless and strangely … useless, not at all heroic down there on the ground, his soul lost in a dark wood.

In the back of his mind, hope – this treacherous, vile creature – had still been whispering, conquering every corner of his brain, filling it with white noise, hissing that, yes, any minute now he would see the shadow of Captain James Harper flit around a corner, that he would reach the man just in time, that there would be a chance to grab those gray coattails, to drag him back, to cry out, "What just happened?"  
  
But Harper had disappeared as if swallowed by the earth.

The street had been deserted, with only the lament of the winter wind for company, the Captain's steps echoing off the concrete pavement in the darkness like precise ticks of a clock beating out a mysterious countdown to some unpredictable journey. And with every single one of them, the whispering inside of him had grown quieter, and he had abandoned all hope and entered his plane, a gate to freedom or eternal dole.

 

ΨΨΨ

  
He was flying again, questions piercing his brain the same way his craft was cutting through the celestial spheres.

 _'What's happened?'_ he wondered.

Biting his lip in concentration, he stared ahead, through the armored windscreen.  
  
Yes, what had happened? There had been this strange blue light …

 _'_ … _maybe some new kinda bomb,'_ the Captain mused. _'A gas attack. Or an electrical fault or something.'_

… and Harper was gone.  
  
What was even stranger, however, was the fact that, a moment later, nobody – not a single soul in the entire dance hall – had even mentioned what had just occurred.

Granted, the Captain hadn't really expected them to give him any trouble about it. But he hadn't thought they would flat-out ignore it either … Actually, it hadn't even been that. No, it had almost seemed as if they had all just woken up from some bizarre dream.

 _'They haven't seen a thing,'_ the Captain realized. _'But why? How? Have they all closed their eyes at the exact same moment?'_ He could faintly make out his own bitter laugh over the powerful roar of the Merlin 45 engine. _'Yeah, right! That's just ridiculous.'  
  
_ Or maybe, the blue light had been too bright for them to see anything at all … But, no, if _he_ had been able to see Captain Harper and Miss Sato run away, then surely everybody else should have as well.

Leveling out his Spit, he bellowed a command to his men. A thousand thoughts were soaring through his head, unable to find a straight way through the wilderness in there.  
  
 _'It makes no sense.'_ For an eerie moment, the crowd had seemed …

 _'_ … _yes, what exactly?'_ he pondered. _'Frozen?'_

Frozen like a lake of blood and guilt, rigid and unmoving for a few moments … And then everyone had suddenly begun to stir, the gentle sound of women's laughter and the low murmur of voices rising up to the ceiling, the clinking of men's whiskey glasses clearly discernible over the music of the band, that had started playing again.  
  
 _'Frozen? Yeah, right! Exactly how many drinks did I have last night?'_  
  
And no one had even cared that they had …

Well, maybe the others really hadn't minded the dancing bit. It had probably passed as a mischievous, but more or less innocent prank. They had been drunk, goofing around. _'Nothing serious,'_ he told himself.  
  
After all, how often had they all jitterbugged like monkeys on fire?

The Captain smiled at the thought. _  
  
_Whenever one of them managed to get hold of a shiny new Jimmy Dorsey or Artie Shaw vinyl, everyone at the airbase would be jumping around the portable phonograph, laughing and showing each other funny Lindy Hop moves.  
  
After all, it was just about forgetting the war for the three minutes of the song, about singing along with it, about laughing and swearing and insulting each other, about tapping one's feet to the bassline or making funny hand gestures to the sound of the trumpets, cigarette in mouth, all of them drunk beyond reason, but still reasonable enough to hide the bottles, the smell of Brylcreem, sweat and booze filling the air. It was just what young men did! "No, you idiot, I said _left!_ … Oh, come on, I'll show you … Come here …ha, ha … Yes, exactly like that. And then you can try to spin her … like this: one, two … _aaaaand_ … ouch, that was my foot! … God, you're drunk!" And at that point, everyone would usually just double up with hysterical laughter.

No one had ever seemed to mind particularly that there were never any ladies around on these occasions.  
  
'Two men dancing with each other? It's not like they don't know what that looks like, right?' the Captain thought.

Except, it hadn't been like that with Captain Harper, a small voice in the back of his mind kept reminding him. It hadn't been a joke at all.  
  
But then, people had probably only seen what they had wanted to see, hadn't they?The usual horseplay, just a bit of fun. They hadn't seen it for what it truly …

 _'No, don't even go there,'_ the Captain interrupted his own train of thought, shivering slightly even in his thick Irvin jacket. _'Never look the Devil in the eye_. _'_

And whatever that blue light had been, the Captain decided he was glad for what had happened. This way, no one had seen the kiss. The kiss that …

 _'No. Not thinking about that!'_ he stopped himself firmly again. _'What's the use in obsessing over it? Harper's left, anyway.'_

But what if he hadn't …

_'No!'_

The Captain could almost hear the violent gnashing of his teeth now. Outside the bulged canopy, the wind seemed to be weeping forlornly, and below him, the Welsh countryside was fast giving way to that leaden-gray surface that was the sea. It had a stygian calm to it, horrifying in its …  
  
"Time's up. Shall we head home, Group Captain?"The sound of the crackling radio burst into his ears almost painfully, shaking him out of his reverie.

"You call that a cross-over turn?" he ground out in response. "Looked more like kids pushing and shoving each other on a playground. That your strategy? To make the _Luftwaffe_ guys die of laughter? … We're doing the whole maneuver again. Keep formation."

His voice sounded tired even to himself.

Focused concentration and a deep underlying tiredness, mixed together inseparably. But then, maybe that was just what the voice of war – this other demonic creature – sounded like. Fiery red around the edges, but weary at the core, galloping slowly over the earth.

"'Kay," came George's sheepish reply.  
  
In truth, the turn had looked fine, and the Captain knew it.

He just didn't want to go home, didn't want to feel heavy and useless back down on the ground again, didn't want to be in that deep place where the sun was silent, didn't want to drag his feet back to base, all the time wondering if maybe, maybe someone had seen the kiss, after all. Someone who  hadn't been blinded by that light or frozen or … Would they barge into his quarters and drag him out by his lapel? Or just throw him an odd look or two? All of them had, at some point, heard rumors about one flyboy or another, and nothing had ever happened to … these people. _'And anyway, I'm not one of_ … _of those_ … _of them_ … _of these_ … _'_

But then again, they _had_ been throwing it in people's faces, Harper and him. Had they overestimated the general tolerance level for eccentricity? Or would it all blow over, as these things often did?

Most of all, he didn't want to run around Cardiff again like he had done earlier, the blacked-out city spreading out in front of him like a nightmarish vision of Dis, dark and deadly, every house seemingly glaring at him with a thousand accusing eyes … His heart hammering in his chest, his lungs heaving, his back aching, he had stumbled through this baleful underworld, looking, searching, agonizing … in every shadowy corner, in every dark alley … frantically … desperately … Harper had to be _somewhere_ , after all. _Had_ to be!  
  
But he hadn't been.  
  
The Captain had eventually given up when he had started to feel the rays of the cold January sun crawl up his skin like a curse, the foul feeling of despair sinking in.  
  
The airfield, his men, his Spitfire had been his rescue from this innermost circle of Hell, and taking off into the gray winter sky had seemed his only escape.  
  
He was fleeing Earth. Deserting the ground.  
  
Up.

ΨΨΨ

  
  
The low, pale sun broke through the Welsh clouds for a moment, glistening on his starboard wing, highlighting its elegant elliptical shape.  
  
And suddenly, there it was: a tiny black speck …

 _'What's that?'_ He had always had exceptionally sharp eyes, and they hadn't failed him this time either.

He squinted at the small dot on the horizon, his back going rigid as the thing quickly flickered away behind the clouds. _'Probably just some bird.'_

But a strange, alarming feeling was stirring in the pit of his stomach.  
  
He accelerated, briefly glancing back over his shoulder. What he saw wasn't too different from what he had already seen in his small rear-view mirror: the trainees' planes were slightly swaying in midair, wings clumsily tilted to one side or the other in a typical novice pilot's way. As if his men were still a bit unsure how to bank their machines, hanging in limbo, still unbaptized by fire, all of them.

 _'Cannon fodder,'_ the Captain realized with shocking clarity.  
  
With him accelerating further, the next cloud in front of him dissipated quickly … And there it was again: just a tiny black speck against the gray sky, but growing fast …

 _'What the hell is_ … _But that's not a bird; that's_ … _'_  
  
"Jesus Christ!" he cursed to himself, his voice almost cracking as he yelled, "Bandit! Twelve o'clock, high! … Enemy aircraft closing fast … Boys, turn around. Lesson's over."  
  
The answer came in the form of a loud clatter of confused voices over the radio. "No, Group Captain, there's nothing–" "But Tower didn't warn–" "Chain Home would have picked up–" "I can't see anything–" "It's only supposed to be a training exercise–" "We're nowhere near the front line–"

 _'This is their first enemy contact,'_ the Captain realized. _'They're still completely in denial about what's happening.'_

"Repeat: turn around. Immediately," he insisted. "I have visual contact! … Something at … uh … angels twenty." And judging from the distinctive, straight-edged wing planform, which he could see from below, that something was not an RAF bird.  
  
In fact, the speck was now growing at an alarming speed, a second one becoming visible against the gray sky. _'Shit. Not just one stray 'schmitt, then_ … _Why isn't there a warning from Tower, anyway? What use is a Happidrome if the guys in there are sleeping the sleep of the innocent? Do I have to rely solely on my eyes now?'_ the Captain thought angrily. _'Something's wrong_ … _Something's very wrong here_ … _'_  
  
The voices in his earphones suddenly changed, turning into panicked cries as even the last trainee finally spotted the machines approaching them. _  
  
'Boys! They're just little boys,'_ the Captain thought. _'They don't stand a chance.'_ And Fighter Command desperately needed pilots. He couldn't let them fall prey to the Germans; he just couldn't.

_'It's my duty.'_

He made his decision quickly, not hesitating for even a second. _'Here one must leave behind all hesitation; here every cowardice must meet its death,'_ he thought for some reason.

If only he could distract the Germans for long enough.  
  
Lure them away.  
  
Be the bait.  
  
"Okay, I'll distract them … Everyone back to base. Retreat."  
  
At that, loud protests erupted in his ears again. "What? No!" "That's practically suicide–" The other Spitfires were still glued to his tail, refusing to break away.  
  
Young boys. Mere kids. No sense of discipline whatsoever.  
  
"Last time.Keep your heads down. Go home. That's an order!" he bit out sharply.  
  
Only seconds seemed to have passed since his initial sighting, and there it was.

Much too fast.  
  
The first Messerschmitt appeared in front of them like a dark vision spouting fire. The Captain dodged its first burst, swerving right … luring it away from his men _._  
  
"Alright," George's chagrined voice conceded eventually. "We'll do as you say. Good luck, Group Captain."

"See you in hell."

 

ΨΨΨ

 

  
During their first briefing, he had asked his boys, "What do you think is the most important thing you need to know while up there?"  
  
And, oh, had they tried to outdo one another in front of their Group Captain in that cold barrack back then, firing out numbers at breakneck speed, convinced that they knew the magic ingredient, knew what the game was all about … climb rate, roll rate, altitude performance, stalling speed …  rattling off the long list of the Spitfire's flight properties, making it sound as though they were proudly bragging about a girlfriend. As though it were all an exciting game.

And suddenly, the Captain had seen them for what they really were: innocent boys, just out of school, who thought they were playing with their toys. They hadn't been up there with him yet.

In response, he had just shaken his head quietly. "No."

At that moment, he had considered telling them about the boy he had heard screaming over the radio as the Germans shot him in the eyes mid-flight, but he had decided against it. It was always hard to figure out what to tell them and what not to.

It had been Tim who had then offered in that timid voice of his, "The most important thing is probably to know where your strength lies. The Spitfire excels in speed and maneuverability."  
  
It had sounded like something out of a textbook, but the Captain had smiled, nonetheless. "Not bad, but … not quite. It's not just about knowing where your strength lies; it's also about knowing …  what the enemy's weakness is."  
  
They had all gone pretty quiet at that.  
  
"The Germans' weakness is … time. Their fuel tanks are half-empty before they even spot you, which is why they're so keen to shoot you out of the sky the first minute into the dogfight. But _you_ have to … to … " For a moment, he had searched for the right words to explain what it really felt like out on a sortie. When it was just you and your guts. "… to dodge and divert … to twist and turn … You gotta dance with them … play with them … tease them … _Really_ use your strength to their disadvantage. Use the Spit's agility to get out of their claws over and over again."  
  
The entire room had been openly staring at him by then.  
  
"Here's the deal: you're engaging an Me 109 in a fighter-to-fighter scenario. The German in his cramped cockpit will attempt to fire at close range. (Don't forget how restricted his vision is in there.) And here's what you're gonna do: Don't let him get close, and eventually, he'll grow impatient 'cause he won't be able to follow you into your tight turns … You've gotta slip away from under his paws again and again _and again_ , and you've gotta be able to recognize the chance to make a kill within a split second … Flying has to become so second-nature to you that the only thing you're focusing on is shootin' him down."  
  
Sure enough, George had chosen that exact moment to clap his hands enthusiastically. "That's how we'll win the war, boys! And I'll bet _that's_ how one wins the girls too. Piece of cake!" he had exclaimed triumphantly, his face flushed with pride in his Group Captain, innocence, admiration, and joy radiating off of him.  
  
"Wait a second," the Captain had interrupted him sternly. "That's … not all of it. Knowing what their weakness is _is_ important, yes. But … _most_ importantly, know what your _own_ weakness is."  
  
George had just shrugged at that.  
  
But the Captain hadn't let them off the hook that easily. "What does a wolf do if it's a bit shortsighted and less agile than its prey?"  
  
More shrugging.  
  
"Wolves, they hunt in packs," the Captain had whispered. "They hide and lurk and wait. They ambush you and attack when you don't expect them to be there, using the element of surprise. They try to separate you from your flight, try to single you out. That's the danger! … So, no feats of lonely heroism. No solos. Got it? Chances are this'd turn into a suicide mission … And, no, it's not the climbing; you can easily out-climb them more often than not. And you can almost always out-turn them. It's the diving! The 109's nose dive is awe-inspiring. One minute, you're on its tail. The next, the German pitches his yellow nose down, and the Messer's gone. Nothing you can do about it. And they _know_ it! … They also know that, should you end up in their place, you won't be able to disengage by diving away like that. Not with negative G killing your engine. That's _your_ weakness! … And once the wolves have singled you out, they start the hunt … You probably think of the Spitfire as a lion or a leopard: fast, strong, with a keen vision … But the Messerschmitt is a sly, hungry wolf, lyin' in wait for you behind a rock somewhere far above your head, suddenly spiraling down into the black abyss to dig its claws into the flesh on your back."  
  
There had been a breathless silence at that.

And he had seen it in their terrified eyes then: now they _had_ been there with him. It wasn't just an exciting game anymore. Their romantic ideas of chivalrous duels and fair sportsmanship had been crushed, and they had smelled and tasted fear for a second, an uneasy sense of foreboding telling them that they couldn't outrun Hell; it would always find them up in the skies.  
  
It had been Tim who had asked the obvious question then. "So, what are we supposed to do _then_?You told us how to evade them in fighter-versus-fighter combat. But what should we do if they ambush us the way you said?"  
  
To which the Captain had quietly replied, "There's nothin' you _can_ do."  
  
His men had just blinked at him in confusion. "But surely there are measures to be taken. Rules–"  
  
"If they manage to separate you from your flight, a whole _Staffel_ surrounding you, attacking in steep dives … then you're a dead man."  
  
"So, how can you prevent it, then?"  
  
"You can't. That's war; it ain't fair."

  
ΨΨΨ

 

  
Another burst. He dodged it again.

It had nearly hit his port wing, and when he had taken evasive action by quickly banking his responsive craft, a stray bullet had slightly grazed her side, somehow causing little bits of paint to come off her roundel and shower the Perspex of the canopy in a beautiful golden rain of particles, tiny like the pale-yellow blotches on the petals of Virgilia flowers back home in Texas.

It was such an unexpected moment of quiet, poetic beauty in the middle of this inferno that it pulled him out of reality for a split second.  
  
Then he noticed that a cold sweat had broken out on the back of his neck. _'Away! Quick! Act as a decoy. Lure them away from the boys.'_  
  
Oh, but he was good at this, his Spitfire gracefully cutting through the sky. Like a knife. Elegant and powerful.  
  
A Burst. This time from dead astern.

 _'Yes. Come on. Fire at me. Don't pay attention to the others.'_  
  
He managed to steer clear of their bullets by turning and twisting away, all the while speeding up even further. Like a leopard about to pounce. Every muscle straining. _  
  
_Another 109 suddenly appeared ahead of him, the sulfurous color of its nose making it look almost satanic against the ashen canvas of the sky. _'Yes. Come on._ _Wanna go for a head-on attack? Don't be shy. This way_ … _Come closer._ _Yeeeessss, baby.'_  
  
The Captain held his breath and fired at it point-blank, the Hispanos' thumping and the massive bang of an explosion, just a couple of yards away, deafening him for a second, shrapnel flying everywhere.

"Yes. _Yes!_ "

Away. Up. Fast.  
  
The remains of the 'schmitt vanished beneath him in a tumbling cloud of black smoke as he pulled sharply up again, biting down on his bottom lip. Hard.

Somehow he had managed to sweat through his Van Heusen shirt over the last couple of seconds, and his heart was now beating wildly in his throat, his fingers sweating in his thick gloves on the stick.  

As he stared through the windscreen, he suddenly thought he caught the reflection of his own face in the armored glass, the fiercely focused look in his narrowed green eyes hidden behind his goggles.

Together with his helmet and mask, they had turned his reflection into a strangely disfigured demon flashing across the Captain's line of sight for a split second. It was almost as if he had seen himself in a warped mirror, the image distorted and daunting.

And wasn't it a bad omen to see one's own doppelganger, the Captain wondered briefly.

Then suddenly, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and knew it: now he had the Germans' full attention. The whole pack of wolves was on his tail.

Seven other Messerschmitts had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and were approaching him now, flying a strange terrace formation he had never seen before, firing at him relentlessly. Bullets flying. Engines roaring. Cannons blazing. It was really starting now, all hell breaking loose.  
  
It was as though he had become one with his Spitfire, as though she were a second skin, turning effortlessly with him like an extension of his body, his thumb never tiring on the gun button, the adrenaline pumping through his veins like liquid fire, the tendons in his neck straining.

The exhilarating feeling of the chase, he knew it all too well: one minute, the wolves were hunting him. The next, he was hunting them, gnashing his teeth, biting the inside of his cheek, his heart beating wildly against his ribs. Fast. Faster. Faster. A rhythm like the paws of a leopard pounding the desert ground, hunting for its prey … or turning into the hunted in a sudden, mysterious moment that twisted reality, turning it inside out.

Only two minutes later, the Captain had already taken out another two of the enemy, having attacked them out of the deep winter sun.

Flaring up in crimson, the two planeshad been plunged into a lake of fire, and he was now, for the first time, entertaining the thought that maybe, just maybe, he still had a chance to make it out of this alive.

Hopefully, his boys were safely on their way home now. That was what really mattered, after all. That they made it back to safety.

He was their only chance, and he knew it.  
  
The strafing seemed to intensify, the wolves growling with impatience, and he started to climb again. Higher. Higher. And higher still. Breaking through a cloud like a leopard rearing its head with a roar.  
  
For about two seconds, he almost thought they had disappeared.  
  
 _'So quiet, so very quiet.'_  
  
A breathtaking moment of total stillness and tranquility, the vast expanse of gray sea spreading out endlessly beneath him as though he had just passed purgatory, as though …

It happened very fast.

The Messerschmitt appeared above him like a dark biblical beast, hurling itself down at him, vengeful wings outstretched as if to grab and choke him, swooping down with its yellow nose practically vertical to the surface of the sea, its propeller looking almost like a furious, turning trident.

The Captain half-rolled into a dive, trying to shake the Messer off, feeling gravity – this thrice-cursed adversary – tug on his brain. He put his head on his shoulder to stop the blood flow, forcefully clenching his jaw, constricted arteries almost bursting under the pressure … His brave little plane was creaking and hissing as if she were about to black out as well, the powerful engine roaring, the aluminum crying out as if in excruciating pain, the whole craft screaming for mercy as the Captain went into a tight diving turn toward the silver-glistening surface of the sea, trying to twist away from the 109 on his tail.

He hadn't even fully completed the turn when he let out a gasp.

Another one.

He turned further to port. Another one above him … and another … and another … and …

 _'Shit. Shit. Shit.'_  
  
They had surrounded him. Like wolves. Diabolical creatures of the dark. Tartaruchi. Guards escorting him on his way to his eternal destination …  
  
Fire was erupting from all sides now while all the _Schwarms_ were closing in on him from above. Six enemy aircraft to his right. Six to his left. Six on his tail …  
  
There.  
  
An opening.  
  
Right there.  
  
He pitched the Spit's long nose down abruptly. No time for aerobatics now.

If only he could get there in time before they closed the circle around him.

He had to get there.  
  
Had to.  
  
Had to.  
  
There. There.  
  
His heart was beating out a wild, syncopated rhythm, his tormented Spitfire shaking violently, threatening to stall.  
  
Down.

He _could_ do it. He could.  
  
Only a few yards left now.  
  
There.  
  
It happened so fast he nearly bit his tongue off: a deafening blast as something slammed violently into the plane's nose, followed by a nerve-shattering scream, his own scream, hot white blinding pain shooting up his still-healing back, everything around him erupting in flames.  
  
He realized it immediately. _'This is it!'_

There was no way he could bail out; the whole plane was ablaze, and the canopy refused to move an inch. _'This is it! Strange how many thoughts one can have in a split second_ … _This is it_ … _I'm gonna die! Now! _… _And here I thought I wasn't even midway upon the journey of my life_ , _'_ he thought bitterly, pain intermingling with a hazy feeling of disappointment. _'So, that's all there is_ … _'_

He had to come up with a final thought. Had to.  
  
His brain was scrambling desperately to find something …

Something beautiful. Something peaceful.    
  
But he found he couldn't conjure up the feeling of the kiss.  
  
That kiss.  
  
The whole morning, he had tried to avoid this thought as much as humanly possible … And now? Now, in this fiery furnace, he couldn't bring it back, couldn't feel the other man's lips on his. Nothing. His life wasn't flashing in front of his eyes. Not even his last twenty-four hours.

No, what his brain was screaming instead was, _'This is it!_ _It's over!'_

And there were snatches of a stupid song stuck in his head … _'Berkeley Square'_ … _'Angels at the Ritz'_ … Shreds of music. Mocking him.

Angels?  
  
A sudden blue ray of light seemed to burst right through the flames, enveloping him from all sides like a gentle blessing. But the Captain was now only dimly aware of it. Strange, it almost felt as though he were lifted up by that ray. Upward, toward the stars.

 _'I'm dying,'_ he thought. And then everything went black.

* * *

 


	2. A ship

**2\. Chapter: A ship** Soundtrack: Arvo Pärt "Magnificat"  
  
The first thing he felt was his back.  
  
 _'Hurts. God, that hurts.'_  
  
Why was it hurting so much? He had actually thought it had been healing up nicely over the past couple of weeks. Why did it hurt so bad all of a sudden?  
  
Eyes closed, he ran his hand along the …

 _'_ … _thick, firm mattress? Aren't the mattresses at the base thin and lumpy. Where am_ – _'_  
  
And in that instant, it all came crashing back to him: the roaring Spit, the fire … his imminent death…  
  
The Captain's eyes flew open, and he jolted upright on the bed, regretting it immediately and hissing out loud when the muscles in his lower back cramped up painfully.

For a moment, his heart threatened to burst out of his chest, his head swimming with vertigo as he slowly reclined back again.  
  
'Okay, not dead, after all. Calm down. You're alive. Feels like you still have all your limbs too. And no burns to the face. That's more than could have been expected.'  
  
Squinting into the darkness, the Captain's eyes searched the unlit room for a clue.  
  
'Probably a hospital. Like that last time in Kent.'  
  
Only this time, he couldn't remember bailing out.

Had he?  
  
The last time he had woken up in hospital, he had at least been able to clearly recall how he had gotten out of the plane over Hell's Corner, St.Mary's church in Capel-le-Ferne gradually coming into focus far below. The hard impact as his body hit the ground in that old medieval churchyard. The rustling of fabric as his parachute landed on top of him, a swooshing sound filling the air as it covered him like a gigantic wing of some guardian angel.

This time he couldn't remember a thing. Just fire and smoke … and his own ear-piercing, hair-raising scream.

_'Pretty dark for a hospital too. And no cries of the wounded.'_

He stretched out his hand, and his fingertips came into contact with a cool metal wall. _'Am I on a plane?_ … _No, too quiet for that. Ship_ _then_. _Hospital ship maybe. But how did I get here?'_  
  
He turned his head around slowly, careful not to strain his back.

There was a thin sliver of light streaming in from under a door at the far end of the room.

The Captain's eyes were clearly getting used to the dark now because, at that very moment, he saw him: a man, or rather a black silhouette, standing in the middle of the room.  
  
Arms folded across his chest, feet planted firmly on the ground, there stood … Captain James Harper.  
  
A hoarse, feeble cry escaped the Captain's lips, his heart slamming into his ribcage with the force of a fist.  
  
Harper didn't even flinch.

The man's jaw was set firmly, a sharp shadow making his cleft chin look as though it were made of stone, hard and chiseled. And he didn't make a single sound. His steely blue eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the Captain in the dim half-light of the room.  
  
 _'I'm hallucinating,'_ the Captain thought, panic gripping him like a serpent would its prey.  
  
"Captain?" he heard himself croak hoarsely, barely recognizing his own voice.  
  
But yet again, the ghostly apparition didn't move.

Something had come alive in those blue eyes, though. Harper seemed to watch the Captain with a slight curiosity now. Then he suddenly stated, "You're alright."  
  
It wasn't even a question, just a statement of something Harper seemed to know already.  
  
And, God, it was his voice. Really his voice! _'Not a delirious dream, then.'_  
  
"Why are you here?" the Captain blurted out the first question that came to his mind, thoughts shooting through his head like bullets from his Brownings in a vicious dogfight.

Harper just narrowed his eyes and didn't respond.  
  
"I thought you'd left! Why are you here? Why am _I_ here? What _is_ this place?" The Captain was now struggling to sit up.  
  
"Easy, soldier!" Harper said. "I'm gonna go get you a glass of water."  
  
He was almost out the door when the Captain finally managed to choke out the question, "How did I even get here?"  
  
"I fished you out," the man replied with a casual shrug, as if this explained everything, and left the room.  
  
'Fished me out? What?! Out of where? Out of the water?'  
  
But his plane had been on fire! He could remember everything clearly now.

The Captain brought his wrist up to his face and sniffed his cuff. The dry sleeve of his uniform smelled distinctly and unpleasantly of smoke, the biting scent making him feel as though Hell had opened its gates once again.  
  
And how had Harper actually managed to turn up at the exact spot where they had been surprised by the Messerschmitts?  
  
Besides, the Captain could rack his brain all he wanted, he hadn't seen a ship from up there. And apparently, neither had the Germans, or Harper wouldn't have been able to 'fish him out.' This was getting more and more confusing by the second.  
  
Harper reappeared, carrying a glass of water, which he handed to the Captain.  
  
 _'Water!'_ The Captain hadn't even noticed how thirsty he had become. He gulped it down greedily, and when he looked up, there it was again: this intent, almost curious look on Harper's face. The kind of look one might give a godchild whom one hasn't seen in a while to check whether the little one has grown a lot in the meantime.  
  
The Captain handed him back the glass.  
  
"So, you saved my life?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But _how?_ … How did you get me out of the burning Spit?"  
  
"We'll get to that in a second."  
  
There was something strange about Harper. Something unsettling. The Captain couldn't really put a finger on it, but an uneasy feeling was telling him that something was wrong. Something he hadn't noticed yet. But he couldn't have said for the life of him what it was.  
  
"D'you think you can walk on your own?" Harper asked in a somewhat flat voice. He seemed too controlled, too different somehow from the man who, just a few hours ago, had told the Captain to live every night like it was his last. It almost seemed as if he were holding back something.  
  
"Well … I'll have to find out eventually, won't I?" the Captain replied, trying for a smile. But Harper had already turned to leave.  
  
The Captain got up slowly, trying to ignore his protesting back, and followed the man's retreating form out of the room on shaky legs. It all felt like a surreal dream.  
  
"Are we on a ship?"  
  
"Kinda," Harpers distant voice replied from the hall.  
  
 _'Maybe a submarine, then.'_ But no … no, this ceiling was clearly much too high for that.  
  
As it turned out, the hall was an oval shape, with several doors along the curved wall and, most importantly, not a single ladder, stairway or hatch in sight. _'This just keeps gettin' stranger and stranger.'_

The Captain cleared his throat. "You were right, you know … One minute, I was teaching my boys the finger-four. The next, the sky was full of swastikas and black crosses."

Harper stopped so abruptly that the Captain almost walked into his back. "Right about what?"

"About them catching me when I would least expect it."

"Oh … Did I say that? Well …" The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, casting the Captain a calculating look over one shoulder.

 _'What's wrong with him?'_ the Captain wondered.  
  
"Well, anyway … That's the conference room," Harper stated suddenly, opening and holding a door for him.

All of a sudden, the Captain felt extremely stupid. Being a man who was used to holding doors for the ladies, he didn't know how to react for a second.  
  
Their eyes met.  
  
For some reason, the Captain's brain chose this moment to alert him again. _'Something's wrong. Something is very, very wrong with Harper,'_ a small voice inside of him whispered. If only he could figure out what it was … But once again, he felt too exhausted to ponder this mystery. Even though the voice in the back of his mind was now screaming at him that he really, really should.  
  
The conference room was dominated by a long square table, surrounded by chairs. And unlike the dark room the Captain had woken up in, this one had a large window. But with the blinds drawn, he couldn't admire the view of the waves crashing against … Coming to think of it, the ship wasn't rocking at all. _'Strange.'_

"Thought you were a flyboy," the Captain remarked. "Wouldn't have put you down as a fish head … Well, uh, you know how it is … The only thing more shameful than being shot down by a German: being rescued by a sailor," he added with a smile.

"I'm not," Harper replied quietly from where he was already sitting at the table.  
  
The Captain turned to look at the other man in confusion.  
  
And in that instant, realization hit him. _'Oh, my God! Harper's hair is longer!'_  
  
He almost reeled from the shock of his discovery.  
  
 _'It has grown an inch at least,'_ he knew with a sudden certainty.

You could get a haircut, and then your hair would be _shorter_ the next day, but it couldn't grow that much within a day's time.  
  
The Captain couldn't have been more shocked had he discovered that Harper didn't cast a shadow.

He stared at the other man, willing his breathing to calm down. It was a feeling not unlike the one he got whenever a maneuver caused the blood to drain from his brain.  
  
 _'It can't be true. It just can't be.'_ But he had always had a sharp eye for small details; he was never wrong about these kind of things. _'That's impossible_ … _I must be wrong _… _A trick of the light_ … _'_  
  
"There is something I'd like to show you," Harper said calmly, fiddling with his strange leather wrist strap. He seemed to press some button on it, and the blinds outside the window began to slowly move up, metal slats rolling upward one by one like beads on a rosary.  
  
From where the Captain stood, he couldn't see anything at first. Although he noticed that the sky was now pitch-black like a shroud.

Just how long had he been out of it, actually? Clearly, it had gone dark in the meantime. Hadn't it been morning when they …  
  
"You should step over to the window; then you'll see it," Harper suggested quietly.  
  
The Captain crossed the room in a few fast strides.  
  
In one corner of the window, he could see a blue light shimmer in the dark.  
  
As he stepped closer, his angle of view shifted, and the light was suddenly …  
  
… bright … and intense … and expanding … and everywhere … luminescent … otherworldly … and unmistakably …  
  
"Oh, God, what is this?" he whispered.  
  
"Earth. We are orbiting it at approximately 280 miles above the equator."

* * *

 


	3. Into the untrodden parts

**3\. Chapter: Into the untrodden parts**                                                                        Soundtrack: Maurice Ravel "Oiseaux tristes" (from "Miroirs") 

"What?"  
  
For a second, the Captain thought his knees might give out under him.  
  
 _'No! That's all just a dream. It must be. I'm_ _lyin'_ _in some hospital bed with a cracked skull, and_ _my fevered brain is producing hallucinations.'_  
  
Slowly, he brought up his hands and placed both his palms flat against the cold glass.

Outside the window, a seemingly endless blue plain was spread out as far as the eye could see, white complex swirls swimming on the surface of Earth's almost liquid-looking atmosphere: an ethereal layer of translucent blue – thin, almost fragile … And they were noiselessly gliding above this scenery of quiet, surreal beauty.

The Captain was so used to the loud roar of his Spitfire that, for a moment, he feared they would plummet down to Earth and shatter against the strong, rugged rocks of some mountain.  
  
"What is–  Is this a plane?"  
  
"Spaceship," Harper replied, not even getting up from his chair. His voice reached the Captain like a garbled underwater sound. "Welcome aboard the _Azazel_ , Captain."  
  
 _'I'm losing my mind,'_ the Captain thought. A queasy, sick feeling in his stomach, he continued to stare out the window, down at the vast azure canvas stretching out below them.  
  
"… only travels in space. But clearly, not everyone can own a TARDIS, right?"  
  
Harper hadn't even stopped talking, but his words seemed to wash over the Captain like ocean waves at high tide, not a single sentence making sense anymore. It was English, but somehow the Captain seemed to have lost the ability to understand even the simplest words.  
  
"… so we can all still be envious of the Doctor for having the most fantastic ship in the universe. Still, there are probably lots of guys who'd love to have this beauty here: top-notch 43rd-century Azazelian engineering. Highly sophisticated, but even a child could fly this baby. Very intuitive technology … Made of Azazelian half-steel. Impermeable, but lightweight. Powerful fusion reactor. Invisibility shield. Perception filter. Artificial gravity … God, you should _see_ this 20th-century crap! Ugh, people are _floating_ _around_ in there. They have to strap themselves down when they go to sleep … And every time they take off or land, they puke and …"  
  
A dream! Weren't there dreams in which people couldn't understand their native language anymore?

It suddenly occurred to the Captain that this had probably been the longest thing he had heard Harper say since he had woken up. The strangely detached and distant attitude the man had displayed earlier had disappeared, and his voice had been full of life and joy just now, not unlike the proud voice of any RAF pilot boasting about his favorite plane.

The Captain tore his eyes away from the window and turned toward the other man, still barely able to suppress the slight tremble in his body.

He was met with a fixed stare, Harper's eyes as azure and shining as the planet below them, but the man's closed-off expression was back in place. Wary. Not giving away a thing. His gaze a desert-like wasteland of cold and emptiness.  
  
"This … is incredible," the Captain finally managed to utter. "We're really in space?"  
  
"Oh, this is nothing. You should check out the view next time we're passing over a solid landmass. Now, _that's_ interesting. But the plain old Pacific? Boring. It'll take us more than an hour or so to cross it."  
  
"Sweet Jesus! At what speed are we going?"  
  
"'Bout 17,000 miles per hour," Harper replied, making a so-so gesture with his hand.  
  
The Captain turned back toward the window, looking out at the white swirls that were scattered decoratively across what he now knew to be the Pacific Ocean. _'Hurricanes and storms,'_ he suddenly realized, _'wreaking terrible havoc, killing people, destroying houses, causing turbulences that every pilot fears_ … _and looking so breathtakingly beautiful and harmless from afar.'_ Amazing.  
  
"So, this is how we'll beat the Germans?" he whispered hopefully. "Is this what your mysterious job is all about?"  
  
In his chest, his heart had begun to flutter with excitement. Yes, they were going to beat them! Who needed blood, sweat and tears when they had technology _that_ powerful. They would win the war.They would! _This_ was their secret weapon.

"Not exactly," Harper replied matter-of-factly, folding his hands on the table in front of him.  
  
The Captain felt himself flinch, a distant suspicion beginning to unfurl in his stomach, a hissing, writhing serpent starting to eat at his insides like a crafty worm. "Are you working for the Germans?" he whispered, not daring to look at Harper again. "Is this their … ship?"  
  
"I'm working for Crown and Country," came the curt reply. "And _we_ have business to discuss."  
  
A low beeping sound indicated that Harper had fiddled with his wrist strap again, and the blinds started to slide back down.  
  
"Business?" the Captain asked, lowering himself onto a chair across from Harper's, his head still spinning from what he had just seen.  
  
A short silence ensued, during which Harper pulled open a drawer, took out a file folder, and started to slowly roll up the sleeves of his light blue shirt.  
  
"You'll need to know a couple of things first. We don't have that much time. So, we better get started right away."  
  
Could this get any more confusing?  
  
"You'll need to know where I'm from."  
  
"Uh … all right."  
  
"I am … from 2008."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"The year! The year 2008. I'm from the future."  
  
The Captain stared at Harper, who stared back unblinkingly, as if what he had just said made perfect sense.  
  
 _'Oh, my God, he's out of his mind. Must be_ … _So, that's_ _what a madman actually looks like,'_ a detached part of the Captain's panicking brain whispered while another inner voice started screaming at him to get the hell out of the room as quickly as possible.  
  
"I've traveled in time."  
  
 _'The hell you did!_ … _But no, no, no, I ain't gonna disagree with you. I ain't gonna say a word_ … _What use is there in upsetting a sick man?!'_ The Captain was still staring at Harper wide-eyed, not daring even to breathe.  
  
"I'm from 2008," Harper repeated calmly. "And I came to 1941 to save your life."  
  
"That's absurd!" the Captain blurted out bluntly, biting his tongue a second too late.    
  
Harper seemed to regard him quizzically for a moment, and then … he smiled a brilliant smile, showing a perfect row of white teeth. "You're telling that to the guy who just showed you that you're in outer space? Wow!"  
  
"But that's … a different thing altogether," the Captain stammered. "I mean, yeah, it _is_ amazing, but … but … flying is just that – flying! … I just didn't know we could go up that high already … Time travel, on the other hand … That's just pure fantasy!"  
  
Harper shrugged. "Your granddad would have said the same thing about flying or global warming."  
  
"Global wa–?"

"Whoops. Little spoiler there," Harper grinned. "Makes more sense on the other side of the millennium, I promise."

The eerie wrongness hovering around the man felt suffocating, making it hard to breathe or concentrate.

In a way it was him. But then again, it wasn't, his hair too long, his face tanned … He hadn't had a tan the day before, had he? How had he managed to get a tan in January, anyway?  
  
And then, there was this sober look in his eyes, barely concealed by the cold, calculated smile on his face and so different from when his open and vulnerable gaze had locked with the Captain's at the Ritz. As if it took the man longer to remember how to act around the Captain than vice versa.

As if this weren't even Harper, as if the man's evil twin had ascended from Hades itself and were sitting here now, playing games with the Captain, testing his sanity.

The Captain shivered at the thought.  
  
"You _really_ think you've traveled in time like someone in … in … an H. G. Wells novel?" he whispered in exasperation.  
  
" _Now_ you're getting it," Harper replied, a content grin spreading across his features.  
  
"Prove it," the Captain breathed.  
  
Harper cast him an enigmatic look, his expression completely unreadable, and the Captain found himself shivering again. It felt as though a demon were luring him deeper and deeper into the desert, tempting him to throw himself into the abyss. And who would catch him if he did?

"I think you might find this interesting," Harper said suddenly, sliding the folder he had retrieved earlier across the table.

For a second, the Captain just stared at it in confusion.

When he looked up, the carefully schooled, blank expression on Harper's face didn't betray anything, and so he picked up the folder, opened it, and … let out a gasp.  
  
There, on the first page, in bold print, was … his name.  
  
 **Jack Harkness, Gp. Capt. 133 Sqn. RAF,** it read. **Place of birth: Houston (Texas), United States of** …  
  
"This is my file," he exclaimed. "Where did you get this?"  
  
He didn't even expect Harper to respond.  
  
Skimming over the first few pages, the Captain thought, _'Date of birth is missing. Several misprints. Splintfire?!_ … _Who the hell typed this?! God! No wonder everything's constantly upside down when the girls can't even type out the files correctly.'_ The basic facts seemed to be there, though: him being an American volunteer … date of enlistment … U/T … OTU  … (He turned the page.) … excerpts from his flying log book … flying hours … accounts of his operational sorties – in his own words (Well, yes, he clearly remembered handing in these combat reports.) … the impressive list of e/a destroyed (confirmed), e/a destroyed (shared), e/a destroyed (probable), e/a damaged (confirmed) … and so on … (The Captain cleared his throat in embarrassment.) … the long list of his promotions … each of them with the official stamp or signature of either Evans, Williams or Woolf … a short statement explaining why the exception of promoting him to Group Captain was granted … _'Valour on the battlefield,'_ it said. (Well, that sounded pretty flattering. He cleared his throat again, quickly turning the page.)  
  
"The interesting part starts somewhere around here."

Harper had quietly moved around the table and was now standing beside the Captain, pointing at the paragraph in question.

The Captain suddenly registered how strong, yet smooth this hand was and how tan this muscular forearm looked, contrasted against the white sheet of paper. Looking up into Harper's startling blue eyes, he almost forgot, for a moment, what he was holding in his hands and what it was supposed to prove.  
  
'Oh, my God, we've kissed!'  
  
With everything that was going on, he had somehow forgotten this part completely, and now it was resurfacing full force.  
  
'Only a few hours ago.'

There was a strange, sad smile on Harper's face … on his lips … _'God, I've kissed those lips. I've kissed_ … _a man. This hand has touched my neck and_ … _'_ The Captain's heart jumped, and he averted his eyes, quickly looking down again.

 **Date of death: 21 January 1941**  
  
What?  
  
"What does that mean?" he asked, feeling the confused flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks for a moment.  
  
Another combat report … _'Tim's written it,'_ he realized weakly. _'_ … _two formations of Messerschmitts_ … _last time of radio contact_ … _taking out three of the enemy_ … _shouts of joy_ … _silence_ … _Presumed dead.'_ Nothing about a scream … But, thank God! Apparently, they had all made it back to safety.  
  
"How did you get this so quickly?" the Captain asked, totally confused now.  
  
"What you _should_ be asking is: how come it says I'm dead when I'm sitting right here."  
  
"Well, Tim doesn't know that," the Captain argued. "I'll have to inform them that you saved my life … God, yes!" he exclaimed. "I've gotta report back as soon as possible. They think I was KIA, after all."  
  
There was a dangerous flash in the other man's eyes. "Your boy … Tim, he _will_ write this report tomorrow," Harper said very slowly and articulately.  
  
And sure enough, the next line read, _'Combat Report submitted by trainee pilot Timothy P. Bishop, 22 January 1941.'_  
  
"How come you have this, then? If Tim's going to hand it in tomorrow."  
  
"He hasn't even written it yet."  
  
"What d'you mean?"  
  
"It doesn't exist yet. But it _will_. In the future." Harper's hand was hovering over the paper again, now pointing at another line.  
  
 **File retrieved on 18-07-2008, TW III, Cardiff**  
  
"And that's … that's supposed to be the evidence? Anyone could have printed a couple of imaginary dates on my file. This doesn't prove a thing!"  
  
At that, Harper briskly returned to his side of the table and opened the drawer again, throwing something onto the tabletop with a loud slap.

It was a newspaper.

"How about this, then?"  
  
The Captain picked it up gingerly, spreading it flat on the tabletop. Strangely enough, there were several color photographs on the front page, instead of the usual black-and-white ones. Nothing about the war, which was even stranger, only a couple of faces he didn't recognize. The date on the top of the page read, **Friday, 18 July 2008**.  
  
"Impossible," he whispered. "… anyone could have printed …" But his stomach was beginning to knot up.  
  
"I bought it before I left … Before. I. Left. 2008!" Harper said, emphasizing each word.  
  
"That's ridiculous … you … tellin' me you're from the future and … and …" The Captain felt a frown form on his forehead, his eyelashes quivering wildly on his cheeks now. "… and that you have this time machine thing somewhere and came here to–"  
  
"Oh, this photo's nice!" Harper interrupted the Captain's stammering. "This guy here has a good chance of becoming the next US-President."  
  
Puzzled, the Captain looked down at the newspaper again. There was a photograph of a smiling young man who …  
  
"But he's a Negro!"  
  
Harper sighed. "Let's deal with PC language later, okay?"  
  
"Huh?" The Captain blinked at the other man in confusion, but Harper didn't offer an explanation. "So, what about Roosevelt?"  
  
"I meant in 2008. Roosevelt will die four years from now."  
  
"Yeah, sure," the Captain muttered in disbelief.

Still, he was more than a little shaken by the events unfurling around him, and for the first time, he realized that he was bone-deep tired. Every muscle in his body seemed to ache, and his back was killing him, sending sparks of pain up his spine and into his skull.

"So, you gonna show me that time machine or what? Let's go to that 2008 of yours and take a stroll. Just prove that what you're sayin' is true," he said, barely registering the tired sarcasm in his own voice.  
  
"Oh, I will … I would, trust me. But once we go down that road, there's no return ticket … Only a few hours left before I have to head back. I need you … _to know_."  
  
"Okay. Let's suppose I believe you," the Captain sighed wearily, "… which I don't! I don't!" he added quickly.  
  
The look Harper gave him was nothing short of triumphant. A wide, mocking grin.  
  
"If … _if_ I were completely insane and did, indeed, believe you, what would you tell me? What's this all about?"  
  
Harper sprang into action immediately, as if everything was running according to plan.  
  
"Let's say you had the technology to go back in time. To travel from 1941 to the past. Let's say to … Queen Victoria–"  
  
"Does it have to be Queen Victoria? Can't I just go visit Wilbur Wright, instead?" the Captain smiled.  
  
"Oh, but Vicky was so much fun," Harper replied with an enigmatic smirk, quirking one eyebrow. "Okay, Wright, then. So, let's say you could travel back in time. That would mean you could go visit him. You could even predict his time of death. Because you would have already read about it in a book back in 1941."  
  
"With you so far."  
  
"You could even try to prevent his death if you wanted. See what else he would invent," Harper shrugged.  
  
"Oh, no, no, no … that's against the rules," the Captain argued. "Whenever you read one of those time travel stories, the hero isn't allowed to change anything, _lest he change the course of history_ ," he quipped, feeling an involuntary smile tug at his lips.  
  
Harper snorted and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Overachiever! … That doesn't work on me, you know. I'm not the Doctor. "  
  
And then suddenly, there was a change in the man's expression, a glint of gentle seriousness in his eyes and something dark, something passionate in his low voice as he whispered hoarsely, "I'm not breaking any rules, Jack, if the person I'm talking to is _already_ _officially dead_."  
  
The Captain shivered at the use of his first name, feeling as though a scarlet noose were slowly tightening around his neck, as though he were stepping toward the precipice from which he would be cast into the abyss.

And yet, he was unable to take a step back, unable to resist the darkness that was calling out to him, a morbid fascination pulling him further and further toward the cliff's edge.

He was staring at the other man as though hypnotized by a snake.

And Harper was staring right back at him, willing him to understand something he was communicating with his eyes.  
  
"I–"  
  
And then the moment was over.

"You should go sleep. D'you remember how to get to the other room?" Harper interrupted him.

"Uh … But–"  
  
"I'm giving you time to think. Just a few hours. You'll need that, trust me … Next door on the right's a bathroom. Goodnight."  
  
From the icy tone in Harper's voice, it was obvious that the conversation was over, nothing but a cold, dark desert where there had been passion mere seconds ago.

Something had transpired between them, but the Captain had no idea what it was.

Now Harper's eyes seemed to spell out one word only: dismissed.  
  
The Captain got up, silently wincing at the pain in his back.

He was almost out the door when Harper's voice rang out behind him. "Oh, and Captain?" Harper held up the newspaper. "Need something to read?"

* * *

 


	4. Hidden worlds beyond our perception*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to point to the warnings again. There is some war imagery in this chapter.

**4\. Chapter: Hidden worlds beyond our perception** *                                                      Soundtrack: Harel Skaat "Inside" (בתוך)  
  
He was lying on the bed, trying to read the strange, colorful newspaper.

Flipping yet another page full of incomprehensible, screaming headlines, he shook his head. _'United Nations? What?_ … _Pope who?_ … _Olympic Games about to start in Beijing_ … _Beijing?!_ … _a smudged, scarred clown face?_ … _Lindsay Lohan's alien love child? What the hell?!_ … _And what is a 'TV Guide' supposed to be?'_

The small lamp on the nightstand provided just enough light to illuminate the photographs printed across the pages, pictures of faces unknown to him, but for some mysterious reason important to those people. Those people … over there.

 _'No, there are no such people. There is no 'over there'! Harper has printed this thing  just to pull your leg _… _But why should he do that? Why should Harper lie to me?_ … _Because he's completely cuckoo. That's why!'_

Great! That meant he was in space with a madman. _'Oh, my God, I'm in space!'_ the Captain suddenly remembered. _'I'm on a spaceship!'_

Could this still turn out to be a strange dream?

 _'Or maybe_ … _maybe I am the crazy one here. Maybe I'm going mad _… _T'was only a question of time before that happened, anyway. What with the war and everything. Nerves are probably shot.'_

Yes, maybe he _was_ hallucinating.

The Captain slid his hand into his pocket, fingertips grazing the thin cardboard of the cigarette pack stashed there.

Still there. He hadn't lost them.

Good.

Pity only that he had left his silver cigarette case at the Ritz when he had stormed out earlier. But thankfully, he still had that pack in his pocket; he was really itching for a smoke to calm his nerves.

He considered lighting a cigarette right there in bed but decided against it. _'I'll have to ask Harper if smoking is even allowed on a spaceship. After all, I didn't survive a burning plane just to get blown up by my own stupidity.'_

Still, his lips were craving the feeling of sucking on a cigarette, longing for the sensation of blowing out smoke in a slow blue stream, blue like those eyes that …  
  
He quickly pulled his hand out of his pocket, feeling frustrated and edgy for some reason. Nicotine deprivation, no doubt.

He really needed that smoke. Something. Anything to take the edge off after this intense, adrenaline-fueled day, he mused, putting his palm flat against the cool metal wall beside the bed. The silence inside the ship was unnerving. _'How does this thing fly, anyway, if it doesn't make a sound?'_

The steel wall was thrumming slightly under his palm. An almost imperceptible vibration, but no actual sound. Just this eerie calm.

And then, how did it fly without a pilot, anyway? Were there more people aboard than just the two of them? Or was Harper the only Charon piloting this ferry?  
  
And then suddenly, it hit him. _'How did I get here?'_ Harper hadn't elaborated on his earlier statement, and the Captain hadn't pressed the issue. This time travel thing had really thrown him off balance.

How had Harper managed to get him up here?  
  
And why had this mysterious man saved his life in the first place? What did Harper want?  
  
 _'I have to get down somehow,'_ the Captain mused. _'I have to report back to base.'_

Harper hadn't said a word about the kiss either. _'No, don't even go there_ … _'_  
  
The Captain didn't notice that he had started to drift off, crossing the Acheron into the world of eternal shades, thoughts racing through his mind like shapeless ghosts …  
  
 _He could see his boys' planes, hear their screams over the radio as the first Spit was shot to pieces by approaching enemy aircraft. He had to act. Had to! Had to protect his boys_ … _And then he noticed it: he couldn't move. His Spitfire was suspended in midair, vibrating slightly, but not moving an inch. He tried again and again. Gasping and swearing_ … _But the Merlin remained silent. And he was condemned to silence as well, reduced to a helpless spectator_ … _The 109s had the advantage of the sun, planes fanning out and launching attack after attack, reducing The Few to even fewer_ … _Screams. Chaos. His men dying one by one_ … _But the Captain couldn't move, sweating and thrashing around in his cockpit._ – _He could understand every word now. Could hear every scream, "Jesus!" and "Mother of God!"_ – _And then suddenly, one of his boys was screaming, "It's his fault! It's all Harkness's fault!" and "He wasn't able to protect us!" and "I'm dying because he's too weak _… _because he's a_ – _" And then another plane turned into a fireball.  
  
The scene morphed into something else. _ – _They were on their knees_ … _defenseless_ … _Mud. Cold. Rain. Water seeping into their boots the same way fear was creeping into their bones. Prisoners of war! Captured!_ – _A Wehrmacht officer was walking up to one of his boys now, putting the barrel of his rifle to the boy's temple._ – _The Captain wanted to scream, 'No!' but he couldn't. Nothing would come out of his mouth._ – _The shot rang out, and the boy fell face-down into the mud, arms outstretched, body forming a horrifying, grotesque cross on the ground._ – _"It's his fault, isn't it?" the German asked suddenly, swiveling around to point at the Captain. "It's because he's too weak." _– _The Captain wanted to protest. Wanted to shout. But again, not a single word came out of his mouth._ – _The German came walking up to him slowly, Iron Cross glinting on his field-gray breast, for some reason making the Captain think of the small cross his mother used to wear around her neck._ – _"So, you're the weak one?"_ – _'No, I'm not,' the Captain thought, but he couldn't form a single sentence. 'Please, let my men go,' he wanted to say, but he couldn't. 'Please. Kill me. Let them go!' His lips were moving as if in prayer, but nothing was coming out._ – _"They were captured because of you. You weren't able to protect them," the harsh German accent snarled in his ear. "You are a disgrace to every military officer in the world. Don't you feel guilty?_ … _Are you going to talk now?"_ – _'I can't. I'm mute;' the Captain thought, panicking._ – _"Talk!"_ – _He couldn't. He tried to scream but couldn't get anything out. It hurt to even breathe._ – _"Talk! Have you kissed a man?"_ – _'No, no. I haven't. I didn't. I won't. I swear,' he wanted to scream, but yet again, no sound would come out._ – _"Talk! Or should I jog your memory a bit?"_ – _'No, no,' the Captain thought._ – _"I will cut off your fingers one by one_ … _until you start talking."_ – _'No! I'll be cooperative. Please. Not my hands!' the Captain screamed in his mind, but his throat was closed._ – _"Fine, if you don't want to talk_ … _let's start with your thumb!" A polished axe blade was descending toward his hand_ …  
  
"No!" the Captain screamed, his body twisting violently on the bed, eyes snapping open. _  
  
_A dream. Just a dream, he realized, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. _'Everything's alright. The boys are safe. I am safe.'_

He was drenched in sweat, his heart still hammering away in his chest.

 _'I'm on Harper's ship. Everything's okay,'_ he repeated to himself over and over again.

Gingerly, he sat up, hissing at the sharp pang of pain in his lower back and trying to catch his breath. There was a bad taste in his mouth, he realized, coughing loudly. As if he had had something metallic under his tongue.

His hands were resting on his knees now, all ten slender, shaking fingers undeniably there …

Still, it felt as though the cold wave of dread that had just washed over him were more real than these ten long digits.

There was no empty space where his right thumb was trembling against his trouser knee, and this fact seemed so bizarre that the Captain felt off-kilter for a moment, as if what he was seeing were one of those surreal scenes you saw on screen when you went to the pictures, too bright, too big, all harsh white light and sharp black shadows …

 _'Doesn't take a Daniel to interpret my dreams,'_ the Captain thought, shaking his head. No, if the inner walls of your soul were covered in writing from floor to ceiling, then you definitely didn't need one.

Groaning, the Captain bent down and picked up the newspaper that had slid off the bed and onto the floor at some point while he had been sleeping.

It felt as though only a few seconds had passed, but it had probably been longer, he mused. The windowless sepulcher of a room, the darkness, the claustrophobic ship, everything was playing havoc with his sense of time, making him nauseous. As if Harper had somehow defeated Time, causing it to swirl down the drain and disappear once and for all.

And that was when the Captain suddenly noticed the heavenly scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting into the room from under the door. _'If there's one smell that can bring back_ _the dead, it's this one,'_ he thought, smiling weakly to himself.

 

 

 

ΨΨΨ

 

  
When he opened the door to the conference room again, the Captain realized with astonishment that it didn't seem as though any time had passed at all. Harper didn't look as if he had slept. Or at least he was still wearing the same clothes.

The Captain ran his hand over his rumpled uniform subconsciously.  
  
With the blinds open, the room was, once again, cast in that cerulean light from outside. It was forming a sublime halo around Harper, who was standing in front of the window, his eyes cloudy and full of secrets, looking lost like the morning star fallen from Heaven … His broad back half-turned to the room, he was quietly drinking his coffee and looking outside, seemingly caught up in his own thoughts, a wistful smile playing on his lips.  
  
"Uh … good morning, I guess …" the Captain said, smoothing down his sleep-tousled hair with one hand.  
  
Harper threw him a look over his shoulder. "Want some coffee? … Coffee pot's over there." He jerked his thumb in the direction of a sideboard in the corner.  
  
The Captain put the newspaper down on the table and shuffled over to the coffee pot uncertainly.

Coffee? _Real_ coffee? And with sugar even? That was something they only got on special occasions. (Although he had gotten more of it lately. Being promoted to Group Captain had its perks, apparently.)

He poured himself a cup, noticing that there was something written on the ceramic in red pen. _'Mine_ – _paws off! Owen.'_

The Captain squinted at the cup in Harper's hand. It had some Asian characters written on its side.  
  
"Sleep well?"  
  
"Uh … yes." The Captain's gaze quickly flickered away from the cup and up to the other man's eyes.

There was an almost imperceptible melancholy playing on Harper's face. He was staring out the window with an intense longing in his eyes, a longing for something just out of his reach … far away … down there on that planet …  
  
The Captain came over to stand at the man's side by the window and peered out himself.  
  
The view was breathtaking; they were passing over an unfolding quilt of colors: chocolate-brown mountains, emerald plains, azure lakes, crimson rocks, and silver-glistening threads of rivers … And there! What was that? … a very fine, winding line … about the width of a hair …

"What is that?" the Captain asked, completely forgetting about his coffee and pointing downward.  
  
"The Great Wall of China."  
  
"That's incredible. You can actually see it from up here?"  
  
"So, you can see it?"  
  
"Yeah, sure."  
  
"Congratulations."  
  
"What for?"

"Well, we _are_ in a lower orbit now. But still … that eyesight of yours is pretty much spectacular. Way better'n mine, in any case."

"Oh."

The Captain turned to look at the other man again.

Harper's profile was basked in that eerie blue light from outside … The Captain could see his firm jawline … his handsome, square chin … the lazy warm pulse in his neck – in that hollow at the base of this strong, tanned throat … and then … his smooth cheek … The urge to just reach out and cup that cheek in his palm was almost unbearable, the Captain realized, his heart speeding up the way it usually did before take-off … as though that small, pounding thing in his chest were about to get airborne on its own … It was a nearly overwhelming feeling – this thought of stroking Harper's warm skin, of tracing that bottom lip with his thumb, of succumbing to the man's devilishly good looks … _'God!'_ … A whispering voice in the back of the Captain's mind was telling him to throw caution to the winds and touch the man already … _'Weak!'_ another inner voice screamed suddenly, the word reverberating in his mind like a distant echo of his nightmare.

He flinched.  
  
Harper hadn't wasted a single word on what had happened at the Ritz, and the Captain just wasn't ready to cross that bridge yet.  
  
"So, we're over China now, huh?" he asked instead, clearing his throat.  
  
"We've completed two and a half orbits," Harper replied, his voice distant.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Harper turned to him abruptly. "Means you've slept three hours … You should drink that coffee before it gets cold."  
  
The Captain blinked. "Uh … yes."  
  
He took a sip out of his cup. The coffee tasted excellent, as it turned out. Something he hadn't had for a long time – definitely not since he had joined up.  
  
"I'm startin' to believe that you _are_ from the future," he quipped, feeling one corner of his mouth curl up. "I mean, what with even the unrationed stuff like coffee being so hard to come by these days …"  
  
"And still, nothing compares to Ianto's coffee," Harper whispered enigmatically.  
  
"Is that some kinda brand?"  
  
Harper smirked. Obviously, something the Captain had said was amusing him immensely.  
  
"Kinda … _One_ of a kind, actually," he added with a small sigh.  
  
Out of the corner of his eyes, the Captain could see the newspaper and the file folder still lying on the table.  
  
He took another sip of his coffee and cleared his throat. "Why am I here?" he asked quietly. "Why are you showing me this … the ship and everything …  It's all probably classified beyond top secret."  
  
Harper's back went rigid for a moment, gray suspenders cutting into the shirt covering his broad shoulders. "Actually … I'm showing you this … I came here … because I want you to come work for me."  
  
"Come again?"  
  
"I've got a vacancy. Need a new team member. You'd be perfect for the position."  
  
"I don't even know what it is that you do," the Captain pointed out, taking another swallow of the delicious coffee.  
  
Harper shrugged. "Oh, the usual, you know … shooting, running, fighting the evil, saving the innocent and all that," he replied casually.  
  
"So … you want me to join your team to … to fight Germans?"  
  
For a moment, Harper looked as though he could barely stop himself from spewing his coffee out his nose. "Well, that'd be fun in 21st-century Cardiff," he grinned. "But, as tempting as it is, I guess Gwen wouldn't approve. She's always such a spoilsport when it comes to funny, pointless manhunts … Anyway … we're … more of a secret combat unit  … operating underground … fighting …"  
  
"Against who?"  
  
Harper pointed out the window, his face growing serious all of a sudden. "Ever wonder if there's more out there?" he asked quietly.  
  
He wasn't pointing at the vast blue planet stretching out below, the Captain noticed. No, the man's hand was raised higher, his index finger pointing at that horrifying outer darkness that was hovering above Earth.  
  
"You mean … like … like Martians … or something?" the Captain asked quizzically, feeling a sarcastic smile form on his face.  
  
"Or something."  
  
The Captain shivered at the calm in Harper's voice.  
  
Suddenly, this thought didn't even seem _that_ ridiculous anymore. Maybe staring down at the precious jewel that was one's home planet could change a person's perspective on things. If people were building spaceships already, who knew … maybe there _were_ other people out there. People with spaceships of their own …

The Captain's stomach felt uneasy at the thought.  
  
"So, you're sayin' you've come from … from the future?" Somehow this idea didn't seem any less ridiculous than it had before, spaceships or not.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"To save my life so that I could come work for you?"  
  
"Correct."  
  
"Aren't there any able young men in two-thousand-and-what-was-it-again?" the Captain quipped in disbelief.  
  
"But I need _you_!" Only Harper could make a statement so calm sound so determined.  
  
Another tense silence ensued.  
  
Then Harper turned to look at the Captain again. "Suppose you believe me–"  
  
"Like hell I do."  
  
"Suppose you could go back in time," Harper insisted, "… to … to Wilbur Wright or whoever." Clearly, he was now returning to his earlier example. "Or rather, you meet somebody, and this somebody _turns out_ to be Wright. The two of you spend a … a nice evening together, and then you go back home to 1941, not suspecting to ever bump into the guy again."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Time passes, stuff happens, and then suddenly, you … need a new team member."  
  
"Wright?" the Captain smirked.  
  
"Or _whoever_. You go back in time again, meet up with the guy, and tell him you need him for the job."  
  
Something was slowly beginning to dawn on the Captain. "Are you telling me that yesterday wasn't … wasn't, in fact, _yesterday_ for you?" he whispered.

They were staring at each other now, the Captain feeling as though he had locked eyes with some dangerous beast in a lions' den.  
  
"How long ago?" he asked in an urgent whisper. "Since you were here last … How long ago was it for you?"

"So, you _do_ believe me now?" Harper asked, diabolical grin spreading across his face.  
  
"Not a word! … How long ago?!" the Captain demanded, surprised by the sudden edge in his own voice, and, for a second, reminded of their earlier row at the Ritz when he had stormed off, away from that balcony, down the stairs, Harper hot on his heels … "How long ago?!"  
  
There was another pause.  
  
"Almost one and a half years."  
  
The Captain felt himself reel in shock, but the mysterious man in front of him didn't even flinch.  
  
Could that be true? _'No. Of course, it isn't. That's madness. It's impossible.'_

But something in Harper's look, some dark and frightful specter in his eyes, was telling the Captain otherwise. There had been something pained and angry in the man's voice, as if he didn't normally talk about this.  
  
 _'God, it all fits. The strangeness. His hair. He doesn't even seem to know how to act around me. All different and on his guard_ … _It can't be. It just can't be.'_  
  
And at that very moment, another thought struck the Captain. "You knew!" he exclaimed. "You knew I was gonna die. Yesterday! At the Ritz! You knew."  
  
"Knew your file. Knew your name. Yep."  
  
So, it had just been pity, then. Everything. At the Ritz. _'He pitied me because he knew I was gonna die,'_ the Captain realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach.  
  
Casting down his eyes, he once again caught sight of the file folder lying on the table. _'Oh my God, but that would mean_ … _'_ He quickly drained the last of his coffee. "In your world, I was dead!"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Oh, my God! For you, I was dead! For more than one and a half years. A rotting corpse somewhere underwater, burned beyond recognition, or, at the very best, drowned from cold shock. God! And now I'm here. Alive! … I was dead, and now I'm alive!"  
  
"Oh, well … Stranger things have happened," Harper shrugged.  
  
"You came back and changed things!"  
  
"Believe me now?" Harper grinned.  
  
"No!" the Captain exclaimed, recoiling and shaking his head frantically. "No, no, no!"  
  
"Oh, but there's more."  
  
"Don't tell me you're a Martian now too," the Captain warned.  
  
Harper gave him a funny, strangely speculative look.  
  
"… or Wright … or … or … Queen Victoria …" the Captain added, distraught.  
  
"My name is not James Harper," the other man interrupted him quickly.  
  
The Captain wasn't surprised in the least. Spaceship. Secret combat unit. An alias. It all fit.    
  
Harper probably wasn't allowed to even mention his real name.  
  
"My name is–"  
  
"You don't have to say anything."  
  
"… Captain Jack Harkness."  
  
"Uh … what?"  
  
"My name's Captain Jack Harkness."  
  
"Isn't that a bit too much of a coincidence?"  
  
"It's not a coincidence. I've had that name for a pretty long time now."  
  
It sounded as if he were talking about a coat or a pair of shoes.  
  
"When I started working undercover, I … uh … needed a false identity. So, I looked up a couple of names in the archives. Names of fallen soldiers. Found yours. It seemed to fit. I took it … I mean, hey, it rhymes with darkness. What's more to want?" Harper smirked. "Well, and I couldn't have known I'd meet you some day," he added apologetically. "People just call me Jack."  
  
 _'What's his real name, then?'_ The question flashed through the Captain's mind instantly, but he didn't dare to ask. _'Harper probably won't answer, anyway_ … _Maybe he won't; maybe he can't. His name might be even more classified than this ship here. Who knows what kinda secrets Harper is protecting_ … _No, not Harper,'_ the Captain realized suddenly. _'People call him Jack.'_ Somehow that sounded even more surreal.  
  
"This can't be true."  
  
"Well, it is … And we don't have that much time left," Harper replied matter-of-factly.

 _'No, not Harper! Jack!'_ the Captain corrected himself mentally.  
  
"You … have my name, a spaceship, a hidden time machine somewhere, and you want me to come join your team," he counted on his fingers. "That's insane."  
  
"But good for the waistline."

The Captain didn't pay him any mind. "What happens if I refuse? If I don't want to go gallivantin' with you through time and space?"  
  
Harper took a deep breath and stepped away from the window for the first time since they had started this conversation. _'Jack, his name's Jack.'_  
  
"Then I'll kill you."  
  
The Captain was met with Jack's hard stare.

There was nothing to indicate that the man hadn't really meant what he had just said.  
  
"What? Why? You just saved my life."  
  
"Think about it. According to history, you died. That's an established fact. I can't let you go back to your men. I'll shoot you in the head and dump your body in the sea somewhere … Nothing will have changed," Jack ground out harshly.  
  
Suddenly, the Captain knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that it was true.

"This … is the strangest job interview I've ever been on."

"Oh, I like all my staff to have a memorable one," Jack replied with a tight smile. "Now, if you join me, you'll need to know that there's no way back. _Ever_. You'll never be able to see your family again, your friends, your loved ones. That's it. You'll be trapped in the 21st century."  
  
"I wouldn't have seen them again, anyway. I would've _died_ in that attack," the Captain argued. "What kinda choice is that? Why are you even askin' me?"  
  
"Because dying will feel like the better option sometimes … Because sometimes, being dead is preferable to being out of one's time," Jack replied, looking away quickly.  
  
"Well, to tell somebody 'I'll kill you if you don't come with me' is a strange way of showing a person that they have a free choice."  
  
"It should be _your_ decision," Jack said firmly.  
  
The Captain tried to catch his gaze, but the man whose name wasn't Harper was steadfastly looking away.  
  
"So, what if I _want_ to be dead?" the Captain asked stubbornly, feeling his jaw flex. "What if I don't believe you? What if I want my hero's death? What if this is a question of honor to me?!"  
  
"Well, that's your decision to make." Jack pulled out the drawer again and put a gun on the table.  
  
"I'm not afraid of dying."  
  
"I know you're not," the man said quietly. "I know you'd choose death in a heartbeat if it were your duty to do so. But what would be the point of that now? You don't need to prove that you're not afraid of death. You guys have proven that just by climbing into those planes and taking off toward the enemy … Now it would just be a pointless death. Because now, there's another option on the table for you: a hero could decide to die with honor or choose to go wherever he's needed. He could see it as his duty to keep fighting as long as there is an enemy to fight. He could remain hungry for the thrill of the unexpected … as long as there's still something to discover, something to marvel at … And he could see this whole situation here as a second chance. A second birth. A second life."  
  
The Captain turned away, gazing out the window again.

The scenery was even more beautiful now.

They were silently gliding over the highest layer of Earth's bright cerulean atmosphere without so much as touching the enormous anvil clouds down there. He could see a lake sparkling blue-turquoise in the sun, and there were little ice-white dots that looked like sugar frosting on the caps of those mountains that he didn't recognize. It was a sight so breathtakingly beautiful that he briefly wondered if maybe this wasn't intended for a mortal to see.  
  
A man who called himself Jack had shown him this.

The blue and white marble of their home planet, Jack had laid it at his feet.

It was probably the most beautiful thing the Captain had ever seen in his life.

Something worth fighting for: Earth.

The Captain had always wanted to know, to see, to fly, to taste life with every breath of air he took. What worlds would Jack show him if he said yes?

Jack had brought him here, and it could all still turn out to be some twisted sort of hell or the greatest form of freedom. He had defeated the Captain's most abhorred adversary: gravity. Only to create it anew, anchoring the Captain to this ship, to this reality …

Slowly, the Captain turned around, catching sight of the newspaper that was still lying on the table.

When he had thrown it there earlier, it had opened to the page with the photograph of the … the young man who might become President sometime far away in the future. What world was that where such a thing was even thinkable?

The Captain suddenly felt a strong urge to find that out for himself.  
  
His gaze traveled back to the man sitting at the table. A man without name. Sitting there like a statue to eternity bathed in the blue light of evanescence, hands carefully folded on the tabletop, gun lying near his elbow, breathing calmly, waiting …  
  
The Captain drew in a painful breath.

Jack's hair looked as soft as it had felt just a few hours ago. Longer. An inch or so. He was sure of that now. But still the same warm brown color.

He remembered those strong hands, now folded so very calmly, remembered them in his hair, their warm finger pads against his skull and on the side of his neck … He remembered how warm Jack's cheek had felt against the tip of his nose … He remembered the surprising softness of Jack's lips, such a contrast to the strength of his muscular chest and shoulders … Jack's firm body in his arms … Jack's tongue sliding into his mouth … and, God, his smell …

The Captain's breaths were coming out faster now.

Had the man really meant it? Or was this some dark angel of destruction, tempting him and leading him astray?

But why then did he remember Jack crying? Why did he remember a tear glistening on this bronzed cheek … shortly before the blue light had swallowed the man …  
  
A memory flashed through his mind suddenly, a scrap of their conversation at the Ritz. _'He hadn't lived,'_ Jack had said … and the Captain had replied, _'Have any of us?'_

And at that moment, Jack looked up from the table, and the Captain's breath hitched at what he saw in those haunted eyes.

In that one broken look, there were all the things the man had apparently suppressed earlier: loneliness and despair and sadness and pain … and maddening fear … and a dark, quivering tenderness …

It was a look that cried out, _'Come with me. Please, don't force me to kill you. I had to bear your death once already.'_ And this look belonged to the man the Captain had met the day before, to the man who had pleaded with the Captain to enjoy life to its fullest … on that balcony at the Ritz … Jack had turned back into that man in a sudden, strange metamorphosis, and to the Captain, it felt almost as though a miraculous, inexplicable act of transubstantiation had just occurred right in front of his eyes.  
  
He was about to put his fate into this man's hands. To go with him or to choose death.  
  
"You have to decide now," Jack whispered almost imperceptibly.  
  
The Captain nodded.

He knew.

"Okay …" he breathed.  
  
Jack looked at him questioningly, a little spark of hope flaring up in his sky-blue eyes.  
  
"Okay … I'll go with you," the Captain clarified in a firmer voice.  
  
"You sure?" Jack whispered.  
  
"Yes."  
  
For a split second, the Captain thought his chest might explode from the look Jack gave him. He was drowning, drowning in unfathomable tenderness and … and then Jack's expression went blank again as though the man had just flicked a switch, leaving the Captain to wonder whether there had ever been anything in those eyes in the first place.  
  
"Well, I guess I won't be needing this anymore, then," Jack said, shoving the gun back into the drawer. "You ready to go?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"It is entirely possible that beyond the perception of our senses unimagined worlds are hidden." (Albert Einstein)


	5. Come fly with me

  
**5\. Chapter: Come fly with me** Soundtrack: Artie Shaw "Non-Stop Flight" (1938)  
  
Jack rushed out of the conference room so quickly that the Captain had to hurry to keep up with him.  
  
The man's dark mood had vanished, making way for a brash cheerfulness that seemed strangely forced under the circumstances. _  
  
'He's embarrassed,'_ the Captain realized. _'Embarrassed and trying to hide it behind winks and smiles.'_

But there was something else too, something more genuine: relief. The man seemed relieved ever since he had put away his gun. As though a heavy burden had been lifted off his shoulders, the Captain mused.

In the hall, Jack was already holding another door open for him. "If you haven't seen the cockpit, you haven't seen anything yet," he said, giving him a playful wink.  
  
 _'God!'_ the Captain thought. He had used that line himself once. On a girl he had shown around the airfield, not understanding why she seemed so much less impressed by the aircraft than by such a trivial thing as his accent or the way he smiled.  
  
And the fact that he had now somehow turned into the one on whom such lines were used and for whom doors were held open made him nervous as hell. Having the tables turned on you could apparently make you feel more than just a little off kilter. Or was that just the whole gravity in space thing?  
  
The moment the Captain stepped through the door, he let out a gasp.  
  
The cockpit was huge. A whole room in itself, as a matter of fact.  
  
He had never seen anything like it.  
  
The instrument panel alone was probably more than twelve feet in width, its black surface covered with oddly shaped letters. But what kind of alphabet that was supposed to be, or even if it was read from left to right or vice versa, the Captain couldn't figure out for the life of him.  
  
The whole thing was peppered with a plethora of different buttons and switches, and several glass screens were merrily beeping and blinking away on top of it.  
  
The most impressive thing about the cockpit, however, was its huge windshield, providing a spectacular, unobstructed 180-degree view of the blue planet below glowing majestically in the sea of black surrounding it.  
  
And it was this sight that made the Captain catch his breath. _'Good thing Jack's shown me the small window in the other room first. I'd have probably keeled over like a hit barrage balloon had I seen this a few hours ago.'_

The only thing that was amiss about this cockpit was the lack of any kind of smell. There was something too sanitized, too sterile, too impersonal and thus unreal about it, and the Captain immediately missed the smell of oil, leather and grease he had come to associate with flying. (Although he faintly suspected that he himself still smelled like that. It was probably a small miracle Jack hadn't run screaming from him yet.)  
  
"So, there's really no one else aboard?" the Captain finally managed to utter.  
  
"What, am I not enough for you now?" Jack grinned, wiggling his eyebrow.  
  
The Captain gulped.  
  
"Engine's turned off at the moment," the other man continued more seriously. "Right now, we're just hanging in Earth's orbit, circling the planet. The autopilot's on alert, though. To avoid collisions. It jumps into action the second something turns up … Not that there's much that could turn up in 1941. Just the odd asteroid or two."  
  
"So, this thing, this ship … can _really_ travel around space?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"To other planets … like … like Mars or Pluto?"  
  
"Well, yeah … it's just that Pluto's not a planet."  
  
"Of course, it is! It was just discovered a couple of years ago."  
  
"Sorry to disappoint you, but they'll strip the poor guy of his rank in 2006."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Jack shook his head, smiling ruefully. "Scientists. What a cruel breed! One minute, they're showering you and your pal Charon with affection. The next, they find another toy to play with and start callin' you names like dwarf. Just wait till they discover Planet X in 2091 and– … um, I probably shouldn't have told you this."  
  
"I've got no idea what you're talkin' about there. But this … this ship here is an amazing piece of technology."  
  
Jack gave him a contemplative look. "D' you wanna fly it?"  
  
"What? No!"  
  
"Why not?" Jack's eyes were sparkling with genuine joy and mischief now. "I usually don't share my girl with anyone. But … _for you_ , I'll make an exception," he added with a leer.  
  
The Captain didn't even know what to say to that. "Look, this is a _spaceship_ –"  
  
"So what? You're a _pilot!_ "  
  
"I've never seen one of these things before, let alone flown one … I have no idea what to do with … all of … _this_ …"  
  
"Oh, come on, it'll be fun!" Jack exclaimed.  
  
"What? _No!_ … I … I don't even know what the writing on all those buttons means."  
  
"Azazelian. Not worth your time, trust me. There are _way_ more interesting alien languages out there," Jack shrugged dismissively. "Come on. You'll figure out what to do as you go along."  
  
"No. Listen, I–"  
  
"But you said it yourself: flying is just that – flying."  
  
"I'd just get the two of us killed."  
  
"Hm … doubt it."  
  
Jack had dropped a heavy hand on the Captain's uniformed shoulder and was steering him toward the pilot seat now, a wide grin plastered on his face.  
  
The Captain, for his part, was beginning to seriously panic as he felt himself being pressed into the black leather seat, his chest quivering with nervous anticipation … And it didn't exactly help that Jack was touching him, really touching him, for the first time since they had danced with each other at the Ritz. (God, where had all the air in this cockpit suddenly gone?) … He slumped back into the seat, feeling Jack withdraw his hand from his shoulder again and instantly missing the warmth that had been seeping through the heavy wool of his tunic. But as he looked up at the man, begging him with his eyes to stop this madness, he was met with a nearly irresistible smile.  
  
"Don't worry," Jack said. "This baby's very intuitive to fly. Hell, a _kid_ could probably fly her. You'll see … Besides, there's this." He pressed a red button on the panel, and suddenly a woman's voice rang out from somewhere above their heads.  
  
"Location: earth orbit, 173 miles above sea level. Speed: 17,239 miles per hour. Do you want something to drink, Captain Jack Harkness?"  
  
The Captain flinched, not used to hearing someone else being addressed by his name. "What was that?"  
  
"On-board computer system," Jack replied, straightening up where he stood beside the Captain's chair, hand still hovering over the button. "No. Thanks. Computer … I. Have. Had. My. Coffee. Already," he pronounced slowly and articulately while pressing the button again.  
  
"On-board com–?"  
  
"She speaks 12,850,000 languages."  
  
The Captain hadn't even known there were that many.  
  
"Shall we start?" Jack asked, rubbing his hands together in childlike glee.  
  
"Look, I still think this is a _very bad idea_. This thing is just … I don't know … No rudder pedals, no stick, no–"  
  
"You'll _love_ it," Jack promised with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "Put your hand on that small screen over there."  
  
The Captain reacted instantly, if only out of instinct, and the moment his hand touched the cool glass of the screen the other man had indicated, the thing began to grow warm and pulse under his palm.  
  
"Engine restart," the woman's voice stated out of nowhere. _'Oh, God.'_  
  
"Yesss! Ready to go … Now, _this_ ," Jack pointed at a large black square on the panel, "is a touchpad. Put your hand on it."  
  
"Look, I'm probably gonna crash us into the moon or something."  
  
"Ooh, that'd be fun. We could take a stroll, dance around in a crater, do a little moonwalk, leave a flag or something. (Boy, would the Americans be pissed in '69.) But no, the stupid piece of rock has to be so far away!" Jack sighed dramatically. "Come on, put your hand on the touchpad," he growled suddenly, right beside the Captain's ear.  
  
Startled, the Captain placed his hand on the black square … and felt it immediately: the ship was moving, responding to his hand's every whim. He drew in a breath, holding it, and slid his palm oh-so-carefully across the square to the left, and again the ship mimicked his motion by slowly turning to port.  
  
"Gee whiz!" he exclaimed. "This girl's a dream."  
  
Jack gave him a knowing grin. "Now, to roll her, you just need to twirl this trackball here …"

They went through roll, pitch and yaw in a crazed cycle of breathless, adrenaline-induced bliss, flying loops and performing rapid turning maneuvers, the ship flipping onto its roof over and over again, like a coin tumbling through the air.

One second, the blue planet seemed to be somewhere below their feet. The next, it was hovering above their heads, eternal night stretching out below.

Heads. Tails. Heads. Tails.

The Captain had long given up on trying to figure out whether it was the ship turning somersaults or Earth itself. (Heads. Tails. Heads. Tai– … or maybe something in between? The edge?)

They were both breathing fast, laughing and gasping.

But, in the end, it all came down to this heady feeling of drunkenness wafting over the Captain as he managed to fly a fast Split-S, to this overwhelming feeling of weakness in his chest as Jack laughed, the man's warm breath hitting the Captain's ear, making something inside him turn somersaults in unison with the ship, a nervous flutter right there, underneath his sweaty undershirt, beneath his sternum … Or was that all just the flying? The smooth, almost noiseless swoosh of the ship racing through the darkness? Maybe it had nothing to do with Jack at all. After all, who would have thought, a few days ago, the Captain would be flying victory rolls in space? In space! The entire universe outside turning around the two of them over and over again, as though they had just found an Archimedean point of their own.

In the end, it all came down to Jack's proximity. And although the man hadn't touched him again, the Captain's breath was hitching every time Jack leaned over him to press a button here or indicate a lever there, the open collar of the man's shirt grazing the Captain's cheek a few times in the process. _'God, his smell_ … _'_ the Captain thought. _'A warm, fresh scent. Like a forest after a summer rain. Same as yesterday when–'_  
  
"I think time's up now," Jack exclaimed, pulling the Captain out of his thoughts by turning off the engine again, the ship shuddering slightly and returning into Earth's orbit like a wild animal suddenly tamed by the touch of its captor.  
  
The Captain dropped his hands from the panel, still trying to catch his breath.  
  
"That was fantastic," he admitted, face still flushed, feeling a bit like a kid that didn't want to leave the playground. "One can play this thing like … like a piano," he added, half-surprised at the enthusiasm in his own voice.  
  
But Jack didn't reply. He was staring at his wristwatch. "It's gotten really late. Time for us to go." There was a sudden seriousness in his voice.  
  
Oh, right … there was this whole time travel thing. The Captain had somehow completely forgotten about _that_. "So, where's your time machine?" he quipped.  
  
When had he started to believe the other man, anyway? _'I haven't. I don't.'_  
  
"Actually, it's a tad more complicated than that …"  
  
"And here I expected magic wands and Latin incantations," the Captain replied with a mock-exasperated smile.  
  
"The ship isn't designed to travel in time; it travels in space only." Jack was kneeling on the floor now, rummaging through a drawer under the instrument panel. "So, to travel in time, we'll need this." He held out his hand, a few pieces of wire dangling from it.  
  
"Wire?" the Captain asked quizzically.  
  
"And this." Jack pointed at his wrist strap. "It's called a vortex manipulator, and lately, it hasn't been working as well as it once used to … as far as time travel is concerned, that is. But I've managed to tinker with it a little."

"Go on. I'll just keep pretendin' I know what you're talking about there," the Captain sighed.

"It's programmed to take one, and only one, person to 1941 and back again. So, we'll need to improvise."

At that, Jack shoved one end of the wire into the wrist device, plugging it in. "The trick is to connect it to the ship. Then it'll take the entire ship with it, and that should include all passengers on board."  
  
"Well, yeah, that'd be neat, actually. I'd probably look pretty stupid if you disappeared with the ship and I was left hanging here in space all by myself," the Captain joked.  
  
Jack smirked but didn't reply. He was connecting the other end of the wire to the panel now.  
  
"And no, I still don't believe a word you're sayin'. Thanks for asking," the Captain added sarcastically.  
  
"Watch out, you might turn into a believer in a matter of seconds," Jack warned with a grin, fiddling with his wrist strap. It emitted a few beeps, sending cold shivers down the Captain's spine.

 _'So, why can't he just program the thing to transport more than just one person?'_ the Captain wondered. Was there a story behind the story he had been given? What was going on?

He cleared his throat. "Also, I'm still not entirely convinced you're not just a little funny in the head," he informed Jack, trying to get a reaction out of the other man.

"Oh, yeah?" Jack stopped for a second, looking up at the Captain, his grin widening even further, if that was actually possible. "Maybe I'm funnier in the head than you can imagine."

"Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?" the Captain inquired.

Jack threw him a look over his shoulder that clearly said, _'Your pick!'_ and continued to press  buttons on his manipulator device.

"You sure this works? What if we end up in the Middle Ages?" the Captain asked, feeling the corner of his mouth curl up in a wry smile.  
  
"Ugh … no, thanks," Jack grimaced. "The plague's bad for the complexion … No, no, no, 21st-century Cardiff is just the place to be, trust me … Relax, I came here this way; we'll get back just fine."  
  
At that, he pressed the big red button on the panel again.  
  
"Time travel device identified," the woman's voice announced cheerfully. "Do you want to proceed?"  
  
"I'd better take this seat now, Captain," Jack ordered. "I'll have to take control of the ship the very minute we arrive in 2008. Too many satellites, the ISS and all kinds of space debris flying around by then."  
  
 _'What?'_ The Captain felt his forehead crinkle in confusion as he listened to yet another one of Jack's cryptic rants, vaguely wishing for the man to call him by his first name again, but erasing that thought from his mind immediately.  
  
He got up and stepped over to the co-pilot's seat, watching Jack sit down with his left arm stretched out in front of his body so as not to accidentally disconnect the wire.

"Do you want to proceed?" the autopilot's voice repeated as the Captain lowered himself into the second seat in the cockpit. "Only destination available: 21st century. If you want to proceed, say 'YES'. If you want to cancel, say 'NO'."  
  
Jack turned toward the Captain, his intent gaze betraying a sudden nervousness. "You still wanna come?" he whispered, his voice a bit rough around the edges.  
  
The Captain swallowed and nodded, feeling his throat go dry for some reason. It all sounded so real.  
  
Jack pressed the red button again and pronounced loudly, "Yes."  
  
"Ship ready for launch," the woman's voice declared. "To leave 1941, please enable time travel device now."  
  
And there it was again, this strange, melancholy expression the Captain had seen on Jack's face earlier when the man had been drinking coffee all alone in front of that window, staring out into space with his haunted eyes. And suddenly, the Captain knew what it was. _'It's nostalgia,'_ he realized in surprise.  
  
Jack's broad chest seemed to heave with an inaudible sigh for a second. "Goodbye, nineteen-forties," the man whispered softly, a small smile playing on his lips.

And then he quickly pressed some button on his wrist strap.  
  
A thousand stars exploded behind the Captain's eyes simultaneously, silver lightning bolts surging through his body as though some ancient god were trying to torture him into ecstasy, an unearthly golden light enveloping him from head to toe. And then he was suddenly flying, flying high in a chariot of fire about to be plunged into the rivers of Hell, golden flames licking at his face. He was burning, burning alive. And there was music, a hauntingly beautiful tune, as though every celestial body in the entire universe were accompanying him with cosmic harmonies, the music of the spheres washing through his soul. And for a glorious, timeless moment, it felt as though he could see with his eyes closed, hear not just with his ears, but with his entire body, feel with the very core of his being, as though he were suddenly mysteriously connected to even the most distant corners of the universe. Bright rays of light were bursting right out of his body now, and then a giant, golden-bronze wave was crashing over him, his body being sucked into a spiral of light …  
  
He came round to the sound of Jack's concerned voice somewhere beside him, "You alright? … _Hey!_ "  
  
"Uh …"  
  
The Captain was lying on his side on the floor in front of his seat, halfway under the instrument panel, his arms crossed in front of his face, his knees drawn up to his chest protectively.  
  
"What was that?" he asked weakly, trying to carefully stretch his long legs and being rewarded by a fresh stab of pain in his lower back.  
  
"Got a bit rough, sorry," Jack's sheepish voice replied from somewhere a few feet away. "I guess I should have told you to buckle up."  
  
The man himself was still sitting in the pilot seat, both his big hands resting on the panel, staring ahead with a look of intense concentration. "You sure you're okay?" he asked, eyes flickering over to where the Captain was now trying to pick himself off the floor, then quickly back to the task at hand.  
  
"Yeah … I guess … Just not used to this," the Captain grimaced, trying to suppress a groan.  
  
"Sorry, I should have known," Jack apologized. "Can't really help you there at the moment; I have to concentrate right now … In 2008, one can't race around the way we did in 1941. Unless we want to ram a satellite, that is … I don't have an escape pod on board; so we can't take the risk of colliding with anything. That's just my bad luck, I guess. I kinda always end up with a ship that doesn't have any escape vessels, and then the Doctor has to turn up to save my ass from getting blown up …"

It sounded as if Jack were plunging headfirst into another story that the Captain wouldn't be able to understand, no matter how hard he tried. With the pain crawling up his spine and flooding his skull, it wasn't too difficult to tune out the man's muttering, anyway. The Captain's head was swimming, and virtually every part of his body, down to the tiniest scar on the knuckles of his right hand, was throbbing and burning with pain.

Slowly, he tried to sit up, bracing himself on his right arm, which immediately started to shake violently under his weight. For a second, he had to fight the nausea rising up in his stomach, feeling his bicep twitch uncontrollably as though his nerves were threatening to shatter right there.

"Whoa. Easy, sailor," Jack's voice cooed softly.

"Call me a sailor again, and you'll be the one in pain here," the Captain grit out between clenched teeth.

The other man gave a low laugh, a hint of concern still audible in his voice.

"And anyway, you are the sailor here, methinks," the Captain pointed out, crawling out from under the instrument panel.

"What?! How come? I'm doing my best here to impress you by _flying_ you through time and space, aren't I?" Jack protested in mock-indignation, not taking his eyes off the controls.

" _Exactly_ ," the Captain groaned as he managed to stand up. "On a space... _ship_. That kinda makes you the Navy between the two of us, don't you think? And the Navy can't be trusted."

Jack gave a short snort. "Oh, _come on_ …"

"Well, you know how the saying goes," the Captain continued. "A pilot's least favorite crowd: Nazis, the Navy, and guys stealing his sugar rations. In that order."

There was another amused snort from Jack's direction. "Well, I can assure you I don't fall into two of those categories."

The Captain collapsed into his seat. "Are we really in … in the future?" he asked, a disbelieving note in his voice.  
  
The panoramic view out the window hadn't changed a bit; they were still noiselessly gliding above the blue planet below. _'But something has definitely happened, right?'_  
  
Jack nodded, not taking his eyes off the windshield, his thumb hovering over the red button again. "Here, listen!"  
  
He pressed it, and the woman's voice from earlier rang out once again. "Welcome to the 21st century, Captain Jack Harkness. Today is Friday, the 18th of July 2008. 8:42 pm Greenwich Mean Time. Destination: Cardiff, Wales, United Kingdom, Europe, Earth, Solar System, Orion Arm, Milky Way, Local G–"  
  
Jack interrupted her by pressing the red button again and continued his calm handling of the flight controls.  
  
The Captain gazed out the windshield.  
  
It really didn't look any different outside. Maybe this was all some stupid misunderstanding. _'I mean, we can't have traveled in time. We just can't.'_  
  
Still, the view outside was as spectacular as ever. It seemed virtually impossible to tire of it and … What was that?  
  
It looked as if there were a tiny white speck floating in the distance, barely visible against the black sky.  
  
"What's this?" the Captain inquired, pointing at the small dot approaching them.  
  
Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Jack squint. "I don't see anything."  
  
And at that very instant, the computer's voice announced. "Minor space debris sighted. Avoidance maneuver not necessary."  
  
One of the screens perched on the panel was now beeping and flashing a red dot rapidly approaching them.  
  
Jack threw it a quick sidelong glance, letting out an appreciative whistle. "Those eyes are gonna prove invaluable in the field."  
  
The Captain didn't pay him any mind. He was staring at the quickly growing speck in utter horror. "Oh, my God," he breathed, a sick feeling curling in the pit of his stomach. "It's a human hand."  
  
"Just the glove of a spacesuit. Someone's lost it. Ordinary space junk," Jack explained calmly. "Welcome to the 21st century, Captain. We leave our garbage everywhere, even in space!" he declaimed in a loud, theatrical voice.  
  
It was an eerie sight as the glove floated by. White against the backdrop of the pitch-black sky. The left hand of the Devil. Lonely and horrifying. For a moment, it seemed suspended in midair, a disembodied hand waving at them, fingers crooked in a creepy beckoning motion as though it were luring them out into the darkness.

Then it glistened once in the sunlight and floated away, fading into the dark like a ghost.

The Captain let out a breath he hadn't known he had been holding.  
  
"Look! Is that …? That's Europe down there, isn't it?" he realized suddenly.  
  
"Yep. We're going down now."  
  
"Amazing." The Captain shook his head.  
  
"Oh, you should see this at night. Now, _that's_ amazing. You can see all the lights of the cities sparkle from up here … 1940s Europe? A pretty sad sight when you think about it. All gloom and doom … what with all the lights switched off."  
  
The Captain suddenly remembered something. "How did you actually get me up here?"  
  
"Simple transportation beam. It comes standard with every model in this spacecraft series. I beamed you up."  
  
The Captain felt himself blink a few times, trying to process this information. He hadn't understood a single word, and somehow, he suspected he wouldn't be able to understand a more precise explanation either. Maybe it was one of those have-to-see-it-for-yourself things.  
  
They were descending fast now. It looked almost as though they were zooming in on Europe with a camera lens, the clouds getting bigger and bigger every second, the geographical outline of the continent becoming sharper and more detailed as they sped down toward Earth. The Captain could see the French coastline now, and the Channel that had turned into a silver ribbon separating Britain from the rest of Europe.  
  
He turned toward Jack again.  
  
The man was staring through the windshield with intense concentration, all strong jaw and confidence, brows furrowed, hard tendons in his neck visibly straining, biting his bottom lip in a way that made the Captain feel slightly light-headed for some reason. Both Jack's hands were flitting across the instrument panel, tapping a button here or flicking a switch there, all with determined precision.  
  
It was fascinating to watch him work like this.

He had an effortless, confident masculinity about him. All experience and fierce concentration. There was something attractive about his focused demeanor, something intense about the way he always seemed to be giving his full and undivided attention to whatever he was doing at the time, something dark and passionate in his eyes as he leaned his muscular frame into the panel ever so slightly. Handsome and manly. Shoulders moving to the inaudible melody of the ship's descent. Strong, tanned forearms working tirelessly …

The Captain swallowed and looked away. Shouldn't he be looking out the window? Wasn't that supposed to be the breathtaking sight here?  
  
"Artificial gravity off!" the autopilot announced suddenly, its disembodied voice resounding in the silent cockpit. The Captain flinched in surprise. He hadn't even felt anything.  
  
Outside, the curved horizon of the planet had turned into a distinct straight line in a sudden moment of transformation, that the Captain had missed somehow, and the further they were descending into the atmosphere, the more it felt as though distance was being mysteriously transformed into height.

Only a few minutes later, it already felt almost like flying his Spitfire, the lush green of the British Isles stretching out beneath them, hills and valleys clearly visible now. The only difference was the total silence of their descent, the absence of any kind of sound throwing him off slightly.  
  
"Aren't they gonna see us? On the radar or somethin'?"  
  
"Ship's completely untraceable as long as the shield's on. Alien stealth technology."

"O-okay."  
  
The Captain could make out rivers, fields and roads now. _'Wales_ … _That's Wales!'_ For a moment, he even thought he knew where they were. _'That group of hills over there_ … _and that shoreline looks familiar_ … _'_ But then again, it seemed that he was mistaken: where he remembered a village to be, a whole city appeared; where he had expected a narrow, winding country road, an entire web of streets was spread out. It all seemed right … and yet wrong at the same time.

Could this really be the 21st century? Had everything changed?  
  
"Buckle up," Jack interrupted his thoughts. "We're near Cardiff now. We're gonna land somewhere over there." He pointed toward a deserted field in the distance.  
  
"But it's tiny. Not even a dirt strip. We're gonna crash into those trees," the Captain exclaimed worriedly. "That's practically suicide."  
  
Jack grinned. "Trust me. For a man with my ego, a pathetic spacecraft accident would be a tad too pedestrian. Only really spectacular exits for me."

With these words, he flicked some switch, and the ship slowed down instantly. But instead of being slammed into the windshield, the Captain found himself still sitting in his seat, a faint tingling sensation spreading through his middle. _'Incredible!'_  
  
The ship touched down smoothly. Like a feather landing on silk. There was nothing even remotely reminding of the Spitfire bump the Captain had grown so used to.

As he turned toward Jack, he realized that the man was looking incredibly pleased with himself.  
  
" _And?_ Have I managed to impress you?" He winked at the Captain.

"T'wasn't exactly a hard belly landing," the Captain muttered in what was probably the understatement of whichever century they were now in.  
  
The other man gave him a wide grin, revealing his perfect white teeth again. "Hard to please, are we?"

"A lot harder'n you think," the Captain growled in reply.

Only a few minutes later, they were already leaving the ship. Jack had fetched his gun (a nice, well-used Webley Mk IV, as the Captain could see now) and his coat from the conference room and was  whistling cheerfully as he yanked open yet another door in the hall.

It turned out to be the exit.  
  
The Captain followed the man outside, immediately splattering his boots with mud.  
  
They were parked in the middle of a deserted field, and it was raining heavily.

"Here we travel in time, expecting a sunny July day, and _that's_ how the 21st century chooses to greet you. I sure am sorry, Captain," Jack said, closing the door behind them.

"It's Wales," the Captain shrugged.

He wasn't really paying attention to anything, anyway, fascinated as he was by the sight of the strange vessel they had just vacated. _'It doesn't even have wings,'_ he thought, amazed. _'No propeller, nothin'.'_ How had Jack managed to land this huge silver-gray projectile? For this was what it looked like on the outside. An enourmous, almost phallic-shaped machine.

"Beats a Spitfire any day, huh?" Jack asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

The Captain felt his back go rigid at the comment. Slowly, he drew himself up to his full height, trying to put as much steely Group-Captain-ness into his voice as possible. " _Nothing_ beats a Spitfire."

"Oh, _come on_ … That old salmon tin?" Jack teased.

"Says the man who apparently lost his wings somewhere along the way … Oh, wait, I get it: from biplane to monoplane to _zeroplane_. That it?" the Captain replied sarcastically.

"Oh, but my ship is _bigger!_ " Jack mock-pouted.

The Captain spread his hands in a gesture of indifference. "So?"

"Well … size _does_ matter, you know," Jack smirked, innocently stroking his hand along the sleek metal hull of his ship.

The Captain felt his face grow hot at the sight, but he refused to avert his eyes.

He cleared his throat. "Wrong. As any pilot will tell you, it's all about performance." He forced himself not to blink, staring right back at the other man.

"Oh, yeah?" Jack grinned. "Well, I–" Suddenly, his mouth snapped shut as though he had just realized what he had been about to say. His fingers were nervously drumming against the metal hull now.

Their eyes locked.

For a moment, the tension between them was almost palpable. The Captain could see Jack's throat work a few times, and then the man broke eye contact with him.

The Captain let out a silent breath. A raindrop had found its way under his collar and was trickling down between his shoulder blades now, causing him to shiver violently. _'July, yeah sure! Gettin' cold real fast here.'_

Where had his leather jacket disappeared to, anyway? He was missing its warm sheepskin already. Although whether he was shaking from the cold or from sheer exhaustion, he could not tell.

"So, are you gonna lock this thing or what?" he asked hoarsely, surprised at the edge in his own voice.  
  
"Key's just for emergencies," Jack replied quietly. "Normally, you lock it like this."  
  
He pressed a button on the ship's hull, and a thin blue beam of light burst out of a small hole in the door, passing over Jack's left eye. There was a soft clicking sound, and the ray of light vanished again.  
  
"What was that?" the Captain asked in astonishment.  
  
"Retina scan. But it works with a fingerprint too."  
  
Jack threw his spaceship one last proud look, giving her wet hull a playful slap. "Bye, old girl!"

He pointed ahead, into the twilight of the rainy summer evening. "Car's that way."  
  
"But aren't people gonna see the ship?" the Captain inquired as they started treading through the mud. "Wouldn't it be better to park her in an abandoned warehouse or something? What if someone stumbles upon her?"  
  
"Can _you_ see her?" Jack asked with a knowing smile.  
  
"Of course, I can." What an odd question.  
  
"You sure?"  
  
The Captain stopped in his tracks and looked over to Jack.  
  
The man was smiling at him quizzically, a raindrop running down his cheek, his eyes shining even bluer with his eyelashes all wet and dark from the rain.  
  
"Of course," the Captain replied in exasperation and turned around …

He let out a gasp. The spaceship was gone.

* * *

 


	6. Pandemonium

**6\. Chapter: Pandemonium** Soundtrack: Maurice Ravel "Scarbo" (from "Gaspard de la nuit")

"Where has it gone?" the Captain exclaimed.  
  
"It's still there."  
  
"But–"  
  
"Invisibility shield. Works outside a thirty-foot radius. By the way … feel anything? Apart from wet and cold, I mean."  
  
Yes … there definitely was something … As soon as the Captain's eyes fell on the patchy spot of grass behind them, where the ship had been just a few minutes ago, he felt that he really, really didn't want to go back there. It was a strange feeling of wrongness and dread … the kind of feeling you might get when stepping onto a frozen lake, a sense of foreboding telling you that the ice under your feet could crack any second and plunge you into the infernal waters of some rueful stream. An almost primal apprehension, so powerful that the Captain couldn't even bear to look at the spot anymore. Something inside of him wanted nothing more than to run. As fast and as far away as possible.  
  
"Very strong perception filter. Forces you to have an emotional response to this place … Trust me, no one's gonna stumble upon my ship."  
  
The Captain shook his head in amazement. "That would have been really useful in 1941," he muttered. The words slipped out before he realized what he was saying.

"To fend off Herr Göring's boys?" Jack inquired.

What the Captain had actually wanted to say was, _'To fend off girls' advances when one is too shy to flirt back.'_ But he managed to bite his tongue at the last moment. "Uh … yeah. Sure."

He cleared his throat nervously again. His uniform was getting more and more soaked by the minute, and he really wanted to get somewhere dry. "So … um … Allons-y?"

Jack's head snapped up, eyes widening. "What did you just say?"

"Uh … 'Allons-y.' Why? Did I mispronounce it?" He gave Jack a nervous smile. "It's just something the French guys used to say. You know … the ones that came over after France was occupied. We used to tease them about their accent. It means–"

"I know what it means," Jack interrupted him, maybe a tad too aggressively. "Look. It was … nothing. Forget it … Come on, we should really get going."  
  
A few minutes passed in silence as they trudged onward, through the pouring rain. But Jack was regarding him thoughtfully, the Captain realized, casting him sidelong, calculating looks.

Then it suddenly seemed as though the man had come to some kind of decision. "When we reach base … Torchwood –Torchwood Three, that's what we're called – um … Could you please … not mention the ship to anyone?"  
  
 _'What?_ … _Does he have the thing all to himself? How can you have a spaceship all to yourself? What a strange and secretive man. Doesn't want even his men to know what he's up to.'_  
  
"But won't people want to know how I came here?" the Captain asked out loud.  
  
"Oh, don't worry. Just tell 'em everything up to the point where your plane was shot to pieces and you were enveloped by blue light …"  
  
The Captain shivered again, raising his eyes to the darkening sky.

It was an instinctive reaction. When one had lived under a sky that could start raining fire at any second, a plain open field just didn't feel like the safest of places.

But there weren't any bombers, no vapor trails criss-crossing the sky like some illegible handwriting scrawled across a burning page, nothing. Just clouds and rain.  
  
"… only to wake up here, in this field," Jack finished his explanation.  
  
"That's a mighty strange story."  
  
"You came to, and there I was. Kneeling beside you. You should be wet and dirty enough to pass for someone who's woken up in the middle of a field."  
  
"Hope you haven't parked the car that far away from the ship just so that I could get wet'n dirty enough," the Captain remarked with a smile.  
  
A few fine laugh lines formed at the corner of Jack's eyes, but he didn't say anything.  
  
The car appeared in sight, parked on the side of an abandoned country road. (Actually, it didn't look much like any automobile the Captain had ever seen, not like a Tilly anyway, rather like some strange little tank.)

And even from here, he could see the word emblazoned on its side:

 

**TORCHWOOD**

  
Just what was this combat unit all about? Torchwood. He was positive he had never heard it mentioned before. _  
  
'Ever wonder if there's more out there?'_ Jack had asked earlier.

The Captain looked over to the man walking beside him in long, energetic strides, unaffected by the mud and rain, eyes shining in the twilight, drops of water running down his cheeks, greatcoat almost black from the downpour now. _  
  
_The strange black tank in front of them emitted a loud beeping sound all of a sudden, its headlights flashing for a moment. (Apparently, Jack had worked his magic wrist strap again.)

And as it turned out, the vehicle looked even stranger on the inside. Screens and buttons all over the place, but at least it was dry.  
  
A few moments later, they were already speeding through the deserted Welsh countryside, gusts of wind sweeping across the hills, forming volatile patterns in the grass.  
  
"You'll be warmer in a minute," Jack stated quietly, looking straight ahead.

Their easy banter from earlier had stopped entirely, and the man's mood had shifted back to dark and brooding, his defenses up again. There was a strange, almost detached tone to his voice, as though he didn't know how to act around the Captain now that the two of them were trapped in the small confines of a car. _  
  
'Not that I know how to act around him,'_ the Captain thought, fiddling with the now-sodden pack of cigarettes in his pocket. _'Guess I can throw those away now,'_ he realized with an inward sigh, shivering in the heavy, rain-soaked wool of his uniform. _'Cigarette case would have come in handy by now. But no, I had to go and leave it at the Ritz!'_  
  
"So? Cars can't fly yet, huh?" he asked, trying for a joke to lighten the mood.  
  
Jack gave a short, dry chuckle, obviously wanting to say something, but at this very moment, there was a crackling sound coming from the dashboard, and a split second later, a poisonous voice erupted from the speaker, "Harkness, you bloody git!"  
  
The Captain flinched at hearing his name, before realizing that it probably wasn't him who was being addressed here.  
  
"And a good afternoon to you too, Owen," Jack replied cheerfully. "Two hours, and already I have started to miss the melodious sound of your voice."  
  
The other man's voice didn't sound melodious at all when it hissed, "Where are you, _you silly clown?_ "

"Out for a stroll …"

"I'm going to shoot you personally as soon as you get your arse back here, Jack. _Where have you been?!_ "  
  
"They can come across as a bit rough at first, but I promise you'll love them," Jack whispered, addressing the Captain, a huge grin plastered on his face.  
  
"Jack, who's there? Who are you talking to?" the sharp voice bellowed through the speaker.  
  
 _'The man's a Londoner_ , _'_ the Captain realized, this being the only other accent, apart from the Welsh one, he had learned to pick out since crossing the pond.  
  
"Oh, but it wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, now would it?" Jack replied with a teasing note to his voice.  
  
"God help me, if you're shagging someone in the SUV, Jack, I'll kill you … _again_ ," the man spat. "Have you got any idea how worried we were? You were gone for two hours. Two sodding hours, Jack! Your comm down, your phone switched off, the SUV parked on a country road in the middle of nowhere."  
  
 _'Two hours?'_ But they had been in space for much longer, hadn't they? God, could it really be true? Had they really traveled in time?  
  
"… and all the while, you're having the time of your life shagging someone in the SUV?" the Londoner ranted on. "We _needed_ the SUV, you know that? … But, no, Captain Jack Harkness just buggers off whenever he feels like it."  
  
Strange, wasn't Jack supposed to be the commanding officer here?  
  
"Oh, come on. I just felt like a stroll," the man himself replied defensively, giving the Captain a mischievous wink.  
  
"In the pouring rain?" the Cockney screeched. "Are roofs not good enough for you anymore? Is that it? … Jack, we bloody _needed_ the car!"  
  
"Should've gotten it then."  
  
"No time. We had a Weevil alarm on our hands. And not a good one."  
  
Jack grinned. " _Are_ there good ones?"  
  
"This day has been a fucking nightmare so far," the other man snapped. "First my favorite coffee cup goes missing. Then Weevils are crawling all over the city. Plus, we can't find you anywhere. Then, joy of all joys, _my mother_ rings. (And trust me, I'd choose a pack of Weevils over her any day.) And to top it all, Gwen goes ballistic because she thinks you've left us again."

"Why would she think that?" Jack asked a bit timidly.

"Yeah, why would she? Because you've _never_ done that before," the other man replied sarcastically. "Must've dreamt that or something … _Of course_ she thought you had abandoned us! And for good this time! She spent the entire afternoon blaming anyone and everyone for driving you away … Including herself."

"What? _Why?_ "

"Well, there's this whole thing of how the two of you haven't exactly looked each other in the eye ever since she conveniently 'forgot' to retcon Rhys a few days ago. Ring any bells?"

"Oookay … Listen … Calm down …   _All_ _of you!_ … I'll be with you in half an hour. No one leaves the Hub."  
  
" _What?!_ Are you out of your mind? Do you know what time it is? You want us to stay late after that stunt you just pulled? We've earned ourselves an early n–"  
  
"Half an hour. Everyone. At. The. Hub," Jack chanted and pressed a button, silencing the other man's protests.  
  
After that, silence fell again as the Captain's mysterious travel companion let his expression grow serious once more, eyes fixed on the rain-swept road ahead of them. Cold, expressionless eyes. Eyes that belonged to a stranger. A stranger whom even his subordinates were calling Captain Jack Harkness – at least the Londoner had.  
  
How had the guy actually known where the car was parked anyway, the Captain wondered. Was he tracking its movements?  
  
And then, the whole part about … about … inviting good-time girls into the car was disconcerting too, to say the least. Not that the Captain hadn't heard rumors about what went on in the vans when the officers weren't looking. But still, the idea that Jack … would actually … In a car … In _this_ car …  
  
The Captain shook himself forcefully, trying to interrupt his own train of thought. "So … that was one of your ground crew?" he asked.  
  
"Owen, yes. Charming fella," Jack smirked.  
  
"I don't doubt it," the Captain replied with a smile.

There was another short silence, interrupted only by the monotonous screeching sound of windshield wiper on glass.

"So, people don't all speak German yet, huh?"

"Wha–" Jack's eyes flickered away from the road briefly and over to him. "Oh … _that's_ what you mean." And for a second, just a tantalizing, short second, the man's face broke into a genuine smile. "No … No, they don't. We won."

"Thank God," the Captain muttered.

"Don't thank God. Thank yourself," Jack bit out sharply. "It was you and your men who saw to that."  
  
He took one hand off the steering wheel abruptly, searching for something on the car floor.

When his hand came up again, it held a strange flat device, small enough to fit in his palm.  
  
"Phone," he explained curtly, holding the thing up for the Captain to see.  
  
"O-okay. Doesn't look like one."  
  
But Jack didn't seem to pay any attention to him – or the road, for that matter; he was fiddling with his phone, apparently trying to switch the thing on, while at the same time swerving away from a bus in a daredevil maneuver and almost hitting a tree in the process.  
  
The Captain let out a sharp breath.  
  
"Twenty-seven missed calls!" Jack whistled unperturbed. "Someone's really missed daddy."

For some reason, the Captain's thoughts suddenly turned to his men at that. Were they missing him? Did they think he was dead now? _'No, not now!'_ he corrected himself mentally. _'Back then! Have they missed me back then?'_ It was enough to hurt a man's brain. If it was even true …

He leaned his temple against the cool glass of the side window, tracking the raindrops sliding down the pane.  
  
"You haven't asked me about the end of the war yet," Jack remarked quietly.  
  
"That's 'cause I still don't believe a word you're sayin'," the Captain replied in a tired voice, not sure he himself was believing what he was saying there. "Not really … Not …"  
  
"1945," Jack said even quieter than before, his voice hoarse. "The war ended in 1945."  
  
"Another four years?" the Captain whispered.  
  
Jack swallowed audibly. "Yeah …"  
  
The Captain continued to look out the window wearily. The road in front of them seemed deserted, the asphalt glistening with rain.

If he pretended this wasn't happening, then it would all just go away, right? If … if he could just rest his head for a moment … if he could just close his eyes and …

He sighed.

He was tired to the point where all his senses were starting to numb, with only his sense of touch strangely heightened by exhaustion. It was an all-too-familiar feeling. As though his body were using its last vestiges of energy to keep him awake by making him shiver uncontrollably. The cool touch of glass against his temple, the feeling of slowly drying clothes against his skin, even the slightest of sensations seemed intensified threefold, causing him to shudder over and over again. And as the car barreled down the road at breakneck speed, with the rain pattering against the roof and the wind sweeping across the windshield, the undulating Welsh countryside seemed to turn into a blur in front of the Captain's eyes, his vision graying out around the edges.

They hadn't exchanged another word, but there was a tension in the line of Jack's shoulders that said, _'It might have been just a few hours for you. But I haven't seen you in a very long time, and you're practically a stranger to me_ … _Two strangers in a car. In the rain. Nothing more.'_  
  
As they drew nearer to the city, the first small houses started to appear.

The Captain craned his neck. Something seemed odd. Something seemed not quite right … Just a few small details … looking decidedly wrong … Windows that weren't covered. Light streaming out into the wet night … No ARP signs anywhere in sight. No blackout curtains … There were strange cars parked in the driveways … And children running along the street, trying to hide from the rain … He had barely caught sight of them, but there had been something strange about them too … Maybe their clothes? … He couldn't be sure. Not at the speed they were going. Jack was gunning the car down the road as if there were no tomorrow, the rain making it even more difficult to make out anything in the oncoming darkness.  
  
Even when they were clearly already driving through the city itself, it was hard to distinguish one thing from another. Everything looked strange and unfamiliar. The futuristic buildings. The bizarre vehicles that looked like something out of a madman's dream. The lights flitting by: street lamps, brightly lit shop windows, red tail lights blinking and flashing everywhere, glowing in the darkness like the eyes of deadly hellhounds … lights, lights everywhere, too many lights … all of them joined in a spinning carousel of fire, blurred and veiled by the pouring rain in the dusk of a Welsh summer evening.  
  
This wasn't Cardiff. How could it be?

He _knew_ Cardiff.

This wasn't it.

This looked more like the capital of Hell, gleaming and glinting in the night, flickering with fire, populated by thousands of demons dancing around them in a savage frenzy.  
  
He caught sight of a strange kind of building across a large square … more lights … illuminated letters … (Were they near the Bay now?)  
  
But before the Captain could even make out what kind of building they had just sped by, they had turned into a tunnel, heading underground, descending into a bottomless pit of darkness … into the very heart of this hellish city.  
  
And just like that, Jack stood on the brakes.

The car gave a sudden jolt forward, tires screeching in one final ear-splitting shriek, that echoed hollowly in the darkness.

The seatbelt painfully cutting into the Captain's chest was the only thing that prevented him from slamming violently into the windshield.

"We're there," Jack announced.  
  
And before the Captain could so much as catch his breath, the other man had already exited the car.

Somehow parking a spaceship had been easier, the Captain mused. _'Madman,'_ he thought, shaking his head with a wry smile and following said man outside.  
  
He could faintly make out the outline of another car parked in the darkness but didn't have the time to take a closer look at it, as he was now hurrying after the billowing greatcoat that was threatening to disappear in the shadows.  
  
Down a long, dark corridor they went, reaching a concrete stairway, that smelled of cat piss and looked as though it hadn't been swept in decades; it was so dirty. There was no telling how far down the stairs went.  
  
"Home, sweet home," Jack sighed happily. The Captain couldn't see anything that would have prompted such a response.  
  
It turned out they didn't have to take the stairs, though. An elevator – equally smelly, if slightly less dirty – was taking them down into the belly of the earth, the lights of passing floors flashing by faster than the Captain could register. _'Maybe it's some kinda bunker,'_ he mused.  
  
At that moment, he suddenly felt something warm brush across his upper arm, realizing that his shoulder had accidentally connected with Jack's in the small confines of the elevator.

For a breathless second, he reeled on the spot; then they shot apart quicker than lightning and continued to stare ahead in awkward silence, both pretending that nothing had happened.

The Captain didn't dare utter a word after that, and the sound of their quickened breaths was the only thing to be heard for a few moments.

When the elevator finally stopped, Jack darted out toward the massive cog door blocking their way. Only a mere second later, it was rolling open with a loud clang, revealing something that looked like a cross between an abandoned subway station, a futuristic bunker and an ancient crypt, a shrill alarm echoing off the tiled walls and the towering ceiling above.

The Captain felt himself gasp for air a couple of times as he tried to take in everything around him: the strange machines scattered across the room, the blinking and flashing screens, the dirty water dripping down the walls, the cracked white tiles giving the place the look of some kind of gloomy morgue …

To his left, he suddenly heard Jack exclaim, "Hey, kids! Look what I found," in a cheerful voice.  
  
And precisely at that moment, a black-haired head popped up from behind some large screen.  
  
It was Toshiko Sato.  
  
"Jack, where have you been? We were so worried tha–   _Oh, my God!_ " Her eyes had gone very wide all of a sudden.  
  
And then she was running toward them, her heels clicking away on the concrete floor.

The next thing the Captain knew, he found himself holding an armful of petite Japanese woman clinging to his neck.  
  
Of course! How could he have forgotten her?! Of course, she would be working for Jack.

"Miss Sato," he finally managed to utter, trying to gently disentangle himself from her.

The girl released him and stepped back, completely out of breath. "Where did you find him, Jack? This is–" She threw her hands up in excitement, gazing at the Captain in something akin to awed wonder. "You … you ought to be dead!" she burst out, clapping both her hands over her mouth when she realized what she had just said. "I mean … I mean …"

"Turns out dyin' just wasn't for me," the Captain replied with a crooked smile.

"This … is incredible!" Toshiko gasped.

She looked different, he realized. Different from the elegantly clad woman he had met just a few hours ago at the Ritz. He had barely recognized her in her strange clothes: faded workman's jeans, a worn-out sweater and thick glasses. Her hair was flying all over the place in a distinctly unflattering way.  
  
The Captain's musings were interrupted by Jack's voice. "Found him in a field outside Cardiff," the man explained casually, jerking his thumb in the Captain's direction.  
  
"But the Rift monitor didn't–"  
  
"Well, look at what the cat dragged in," a sullen voice suddenly resounded from somewhere behind Toshiko.

The man who had appeared at her shoulder at that moment was unmistakably the Londoner they had spoken to earlier in the car. A scrawny guy with a gaunt, pale face.

"And who the hell is that? … Jack, if this is another one of your Time Agency pals with a costume fetish–"  
  
"No, Owen, listen. This is the most extraordinary thing the Rift–" Toshiko began excitedly, only to be interrupted again, this time by another woman heading toward them.  
  
"You're back. Thank God, you're back, Jack! We thought you'd left us for good," her Welsh accent echoed off the walls, her big hazel eyes holding a look of hurt and confusion. They were shining with worried, but not unfriendly seriousness from under her mop of dark, unruly hair. "Where have you been, Jack? Didn't you know how worried we were?!"  
  
"Oookay! Conference room, everyone! Now!" Jack shouted, shooing his team down a hallway like a bunch of excited kids.

They made their way deeper and deeper into the bowels of this strange underground catacomb, before finally bustling through a door at the far end of a dark corridor.

Under the bright lights of the boardroom, it became even more clear how strange they all looked.

The Welsh girl's hair, for example, was even more tangled and windswept than Toshiko's. And the man Toshiko had called Owen was wearing a white (or rather dirty-gray) lab coat over a t-shirt that read 'GREEN DAY' for some mysterious reason.

And then, there was the fact that, just a few moments ago, they had all talked what, to the Captain, had sounded like complete gibberish …  
  
No sooner were they all seated at the long wooden table, curious glances cast in the Captain's direction, than one last man slid into the room, taking a seat at the far end of said table.

It was a young man, almost a boy, and he had entered the room noiselessly, his posture clearly saying, _'Don't pay attention to me. I'm just another suit.'_ But maybe that was exactly why his entrance hadn't gone completely unnoticed by the Captain: this young boy was, in fact, _the_ _only one_ in the roomwearing asuit.

 _'Probably some kinda houseboy_ … _or butler or something_ … _You never know with the Brits,'_ the Captain thought with an upward quirk of his lips.  
  
The young man exchanged a quick look with Jack, and the Captain felt his eyebrows rise in surprise.

 _'Or rather_ … _a secretary or advisor,'_ he corrected himself mentally. There had been an entire conversation in that look; the Captain was certain of that. But he couldn't for the life of him figure out what it had been about.

He tried to read the young secretary's face, but the man's expression had turned blank once again, and he didn't even seem to acknowledge the presence of the uniformed stranger in the room.  
  
"Okay, now that we're all here, let's start with introductions." Jack turned to the Captain. "You've met Tosh, of course …"  
  
This was met with wide-eyed stares around the table, with the exception of the young secretary, who looked rather unimpressed where he was sitting in the shadows.  
  
"… Tosh is our tech expert here at Torchwood," Jack continued. "And a brilliant one at that. She could kill you … _with her brain_."

Toshiko gave a little smile.

"No, seriously," Jack insisted. "She probably knows more about weaponry than I do. And by 'weaponry', I don't just mean the measly stuff you people have on this planet … Now, this lovely lady over here …" He turned to the other woman in the room. "… is Gwen Cooper, former police officer and now a field agent on our team. She handles a good portion of the shooting, running and fighting bit I told you about, all the hands-on stuff … Don't ever get on her bad side; she's got a mean left hook," Jack grinned.  
  
The woman he had called Gwen gave the Captain a warm smile.

Her eyes held a friendly, open gaze. Surely, Jack hadn't said she was fighting? For a woman to specialize in technology was not unheard-of, the Captain supposed. What with all the Waafs working in the operations rooms … But a woman serving in the field?

He gave her a covert once-over, trying not to seem rude.  
  
Meanwhile, Jack had resumed the introductions. "The man to your right is … _Doctor_ Owen Harper," he said with a slightly teasing note in his voice, emphasizing the word 'doctor' for some reason.  
  
The man so addressed responded by snorting loudly and narrowing his eyes at Jack. He was chewing on the end of a pen in a half-distracted, half-bored way.  
  
"Owen is our resident medic and a valued field agent as well," Jack continued. "You want to have an injury looked at or a Martian dissected, he's your man."  
  
"Martian? What are you on about, Harkness?" Owen snarled.  
  
For the second time today, the Captain felt himself flinch involuntarily. _'They're really doing it. All of them._ _They are calling Jack by my name –_ _just like he said they would.'_

It was unsettling.  
  
"And last but not least, this is Ianto Jones," Jack said.  
  
"Or 'teaboy', as the rest of the world calls him," Owen muttered under his breath, which earned him a sharp look from his boss.  
  
"This place would fall apart without him," Jack continued. "We couldn't function without him … _I_ couldn't function without him." _  
  
_And that was when the Captain suddenly remembered it. _'Ianto's coffee. One of a kind_ … _Of course!'_  
  
The man so praised inclined his head slightly but remained silent, giving the Captain a polite nod and a cursory glance as if he had only just noticed him. Not unfriendly, but not overly attentive either. A professional. The epitome of the perfect secretary.  
  
The Captain looked over to Jack again, who was now rubbing his palms together. "Everyone, meet …" The man paused briefly for emphasis. "…Captain Jack Harkness."  
  
"What?" Owen hissed.  
  
"Jack, what the hell?" Gwen asked, taken aback, her eyes even bigger now.  
  
"We met," Jack added as if this were a perfectly normal thing to say, "when Tosh and I were trapped in 1941 last year. At the Ritz dance hall."  
  
Toshiko nodded silently.  
  
"Bloody hell, I knew he looked familiar!" Owen exclaimed. "The photo!"  
  
"Jack, you're not serious, are you? What does this mean?" Gwen's voice was gaining in strength and volume at an almost alarming rate.  
  
"Trust me, I was as shocked as you are now when I met the man whose name I took a long time ago," Jack shrugged.  
  
"What's your _real_ name, then?" Gwen demanded fiercely.  
  
 _'So, they really don't know his name either,'_ the Captain realized. _'This just keeps gettin' stranger_ _and stranger_ … _'_  
  
Jack just glared at her silently, his lips pressed together in a firm line.  
  
It was Owen who interrupted their staring contest. "So, _that's_ why Tosh never wanted to talk about your little trip to the 1940s, eh?"  
  
Out of the corner of his eyes, the Captain could see Toshiko avert her gaze.  
  
"You didn't tell us a bloody thing, Tosh!" Owen added in a menacing voice, eyes narrowed into two accusing slits, which made his pale face look even more like a strangely deformed skull. "If it weren't for the Rift, we'd still be in the dark. It's about time we got a piece of the cake too … So, whatever you and Jack covered up there, the Rift's proven itself incorruptible. All your little secrets just went up in blue flames. Because the Rift went 'Poof!' and spit out someone … and oh, look, it's the original! And still in his original packaging and everything …"  
  
Jack tore his eyes away from Gwen and turned to the fuming medic. "Owen, pull yourself together, will you! The Captain turning up here is actually a fortunate thing for us … I've already asked him to join the team."  
  
"What?!" Gwen exclaimed.  
  
"The Captain will join Torchwood as soon as possible," Jack explained, an edge of barely suppressed impatience audible in his calm voice. "We already talked about it on our way over here."

"No way!" Owen blurted out.

"Yes way!" Jack shot back. "As I said, it's a fortunate–"  
  
"Jack, you can't do that," Gwen interrupted him. "We have a responsibility here. He's a Rift victim, for God's sake. We treat him like every other time traveler that came through: help him to adapt to his new environment, make sure he can take care of himself. Or try to get him back home … if that's possible."  
  
 _'What does she mean 'every other'?'_ the Captain wondered, shivering. _'And what is this Rift thing they keep referring to?'_ This was all getting more and more confusing by the minute.Well … at least his clothes felt drier now.  
  
"He stays and joins the team. End of discussion!" Jack said, his voice more determined now. "And you _know_ there's no way back, Gwen."  
  
"You lost your marbles, Harkness?" Owen seethed, pointing his pen to his pale forehead. "You can't just casually ask a Rift victim on your way over to the Hub if he wants to join Torchwood."  
  
"Says who?!" Jack asked, a warning tone in his voice.

"Jack, listen," Gwen tried to reason with her boss again. "He's stuck in a world that's completely alien to him, struggling to comprehend what's going on. Scared and confused. We've got to help him." _  
  
_' _He's sittin' right here, you know_ ,' the Captain thought, quickly averting his eyes.  
  
There was something akin to pity in Gwen's voice now. "No, Jack. You're not deciding this on your own … His people, back there … er … where he came from, they probably need him … What _is_ he over there, anyway?"  
  
"Dead," Jack replied curtly.  
  
The Captain thought he heard Owen mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, "Jack, the necrophiliac …"  
  
Discipline was apparently interpreted differently around here.

"Look, like it or not, _I'm_ the boss. _I_ make the rules," Jack said coldly.

"Nazi," Owen grumbled, not noticing that the Captain had jumped at the word. "I said it before, and I'll say it again: Worst. Day. Ever. A fucking nightmare! Coffee cup, SUV, Gwen, Weevils, mysterious shadows, my mother … and just when I think it can't get any worse, you turn up with bloody Gary Cooper here."

"Wait a second," Jack said sternly. "You didn't mention any shadows before. What's that all about?"

Owen rolled his eyes. "Gwen 'saw' something," he said, making quotation marks in the air with his fingers. "But personally, I think she was just hallucinating."

"I was _not_ bloody hallucinating, Owen," Gwen protested. "I really did see something when I was crossing the Plass."

"Yes, a 'mysterious shadow', I know. You told us," Owen snorted.

"What did this shadow look like, Gwen?" Jack asked in a serious voice, not paying attention to the doctor's antics.

Gwen shrugged. "I don't know … It was coming down so hard; it was difficult to make out anything. But I had the distinct feeling that someone was following me. It just … I don't know … It felt like someone was stalking me."

"Probably your stupid boyfriend," Owen huffed.

"Fiancé," Gwen corrected him.

"So, you agree that he's stupid, then?" the medic grinned. "It would make sense, you know.  Now that he knows where you work, he can keep tabs on you and make sure you don't try to snog Jack on the doorstep or somethi–"

Gwen quickly talked over him. "I think there was someone lurking around the Plass, watching the entrance to the Hub."

"Ooh, maybe a ghost or an evil spirit?" Owen snickered.

Gwen responded by elbowing the man in the ribs none-too-gently. "Oh, shut up, Owen."

"What were you doing outside, anyway?" Jack asked.

"Well," Owen cleared his throat pointedly. "If I remember correctly, _someone_ felt like taking a spontaneous stroll and buggered off withthe SUV," he growled, baring his teeth. "So, we had to take Gwen's tiny matchbox of a car. And once it was full to the gunnels with dead Weevils, one of us had to _walk_ back to the Hub. Well, Gwen said she couldn't take the stench of the corpses. So she chose to walk."

"Through the pouring rain …" Gwen muttered.

"Did you check the CCTV?" Jack asked. "If there was someone lurking around, then they should show up on the camera footage."

"Well, that's the strange thing," Toshiko suddenly chimed in. "We cannot check the CCTV because it was down for an hour or so today."

The Captain noticed how Jack's eyes suddenly widened in astonishment. "What?"

"It could be just a coincidence, Jack," Toshiko pointed out. "Our machinery here at the Hub tends to drain power from the entire Bay area. A Weevil alarm can cause short circuits or power cuts. Nothing dramatic, just tiny blips, you know. But sometimes …" She trailed off, shrugging. "Oh, and if there was an overlap with the Rift activity earlier, this would explain why the Rift monitor went haywire and didn't pick up on the Captain coming through."

Jack shot the Captain a look out of the corner of his eye. "Well, good thing I … uh … felt like taking a stroll today, then … This way, I was in the neighborhood when he–"

"But this doesn't mean he can join the team just like that," Owen scowled.

"That's for me to decide," Jack replied, his voice suddenly harsh.

And then the room erupted into another shouting match between Jack, Gwen and Owen.  
  
Out of the corner of his eyes, the Captain could see that Toshiko was smiling at him apologetically. It was a silent little smile that clearly said, _'Don't worry. They do this all the time.'_  
  
The young man in the corner – 'Ianto' Jack had called him – was the only one seemingly unbothered by what was going on around him; his expression was completely unreadable. He seemed so – for a moment, the Captain couldn't even decide what word to think of … aloof? … bored even. Currently, he was inspecting his already immaculate fingernails, the cufflinks on his starched shirt glinting in the light when he lifted his slender hand to discreetly stifle a yawn.

And at exactly that moment, Owen exploded. "You're not springing another _teaboy_ on us, Jack!" he shouted, wildly gesticulating and accidentally sending his pen flying across the room in Ianto's direction.  
  
The young man swiftly dodged the strange projectile without so much as looking up from his hands.  
  
"Revenge, Owen?" he asked, one of his eyebrows cocked.

Those were the first two words the man had spoken, and the Captain was surprised to notice that his voice was a lot deeper than he had imagined.  
  
"For that, I'd use _something other than_ _a pen_ , Ianto," Owen spat viciously. "And I'm definitely a better shot than you are."  
  
A hint of a smile flashed across the young man's face for a second. "You think?" he asked quizzically, a slight Welsh lilt to his vowels.  
  
 _'Okay, what was that all about?'_

The Captain felt very tired all of a sudden. Tired of not understanding what was going on. Tired of listening to people talk in what sounded like a foreign language. Tired of watching these surreal scenes flash in front of his eyes. Tired of channeling all his energy into suppressing the pain. And tired from being on his feet for so long …  
  
Suddenly, he felt Toshiko's small white hand cover his. "This is just the way they work," she whispered, giving him a reassuring smile. "It'll all work out fine."  
  
And then suddenly, it seemed as if her hand were the only thing anchoring him to reality, the fulcrum around which the room had started to spin. Both his hands were shaking, and sweat was forming on his brow. In front of his eyes, the room was swimming in and out of focus; it was like looking into an aquarium. Even the voices around him sounded as if he were underwater now, with only his heartbeat drumming loudly in his ears, picking up speed, pounding in sync with the waves of pain rushing through him …

"Hey, you okay?" Toshiko's concerned voice asked somewhere beside him.

"Shit, Jack. He's completely pale," Owen shouted, his voice reaching the Captain through a haze of pain before the room vanished into darkness …

* * *

 


	7. It ain't necessarily so

**7\. Chapter: It ain't necessarily so** Soundtrack: George Gershwin "Summertime" (Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong)

 

There was a big, warm hand on the side of his neck, a thumb briefly stroking his jaw and the tense neck tendons right below. The touch felt familiar. Kind and comforting. If it weren't for the pain in his lumbar area radiating up to his head and the feeling of the cold, hard floor against his back, he would have even thought it downright nice.

Swimming back to consciousness, the Captain became aware of a chorus of alarmed voices talking over one another.

He cracked his eyes open and immediately wished he hadn't.

Everything seemed too bright, too harsh for a second, too many lights and colors attacking his retinas at once. But there was something else as well: a pair of concerned eyes, just inches above his face. Familiar, worried eyes. Blue and clear as the sky beyond the canopy on a crisp spring morning.     

"Out of the way, Harkness. That's my job!" a voice bellowed somewhere in the background.

The blue eyes disappeared, and it felt as though something had suddenly been taken from him, as though the sky had accidentally got caught in the release cable and had been pushed back together with the canopy, leaving behind a hollow nothingness as the warm hand slid away as well.

"What … what's wrong with him, Owen? Why has he passed out? Do something!"

 _'Jack. That's Jack. That's Jack's voice,'_ the Captain thought blearily. And somewhere in the background, he heard Gwen gasp, "Poor thing!" with barely suppressed emotion.

"Oi, Captain America! Wakey, wakey!" a peevish voice called out beside him.

Blinking his eyes fully open, the Captain found himself face to face with a certain cranky physician from London.

" _That's_ it. Now, do you know who I am?" A bony finger was flashing back and forth in the Captain's line of vision – apparently an attempt to determine if his eyes would have any trouble tracking it.

"Doctor Harper."

" _Bravo._ You're the first Harkness around this place to call me by my title. Keep it up, and this might turn out to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship," Owen snorted, holding up two fingers in front of the Captain's eyes. "How many fingers?"

"Five. In various degrees of … um … extension," the Captain replied, cracking a wry smile despite the dizziness in his head and eliciting a surprised little giggle from Gwen.

"Oh, don't play smart with me," Owen huffed, then turned around. "I think I know what's up with him, Jack. He's not concussed."

"No, I'm really … not. I just … uh …" The Captain grimaced, slowly sitting up, and realized he was surrounded by worried faces. "I guess I just … uh … fell off the chair …" he muttered, trailing off in embarrassment, suddenly not knowing where to look – what with everyone staring at him. After all, self-respecting RAF fighter pilots weren't supposed to just fall off their chairs in mid-conversation, were they?

"Yes, because you _fainted_ ," Toshiko finished the sentence for him in a whisper, a look of pained pity crossing her delicate features.

Suddenly, Owen, who was still hovering above him like some ragged black vulture, grabbed him by the elbow. "Up!" he barked, roughly hauling the swaying Captain into a standing position. "Medical bay!" he ordered.

The room wasn't exactly spinning anymore, but the Captain still felt a little weak in the knees, which didn't seem to bother Owen in the least. Because the next thing the Captain knew, he was half-steered, half-dragged out of the conference room, one of his arms draped around the doctor's bony shoulders, followed by Gwen's hushed whisper and the rapid click-click-click of Toshiko's high heels. Behind himself, the Captain could practically sense Jack's looming presence. The man wasn't touching him anywhere, but it was obvious he was ready to catch him by the elbow and steady him should he miss a step on one of the many seemingly endless, unlit flights of stairs they were navigating.

Where had the secretary actually disappeared to, the Captain wondered. He hadn't seen the young Welshman since he had opened his eyes earlier. Apparently, the guy had slipped out of the room while the Captain had been out cold.

But somehow, this wasn't the biggest of his worries right now. The question of what was going on with him seemed to be a more pressing issue at the moment.

Before he could so much as catch his breath, he was shoved unceremoniously onto a metal exam table, the harsh white lights of the tiled room they were now in making him feel even more nauseated and dizzy as he tried to sit up straight. As far as his surroundings were concerned, he was now getting the distinct impression that, unlike the main atrium, this place didn't just looklike a morgue. It was one.  
  
Owen didn't seem to notice his discomfort, though. The man was fiddling with the Captain's sleeve, deftly rolling it up. But instead of taking his patient's pulse, he proceeded to grab a small metal device off a cluttered desk and held it against the Captain's wrist.

"The scanner will tell us all we need to know. Although … I already have a theory, to be honest …" And then he promptly trailed off into muttering, eyes fixed on the small screen of his strange device. "Acute hypoglycemia … mm-hm … well, well, and if that isn't … mm-hm … arterial hypotension … of course … slightly elevated heart rate … and …"  
  
"Owen, what's wrong with him?" Jack asked impatiently, forehead creasing in barely disguised concern.  
  
The Captain looked up at the small group of people that stood assembled around the exam table. There were a few fine vertical lines between Jack's eyebrows, and worry was written all over Gwen's and Toshiko's faces; Ianto was still nowhere to be seen.  
  
Apart from a few grunts, Owen had remained completely silent, apparently not even paying attention to his boss's questions, immersed in the readings on his funny little machine as he was, nodding and murmuring to himself.

Then he slowly raised his gaze to the Captain, all cocky recklessness suddenly gone from his eyes, and gave him a stern look like a very strict doctor scolding a child. "Listen … er …" He paused for a moment, clearly pondering the question how to address his boss's namesake. "… er … Captain … how long since you've had anything _to eat?_ "

The Captain frowned. "To eat?"

"Yes, _to eat._ "  
  
"Uh … I really couldn't say … Maybe …"  
  
Yes, how long had it been?  
  
How long had they been on Jack's ship? A few hours, right? And before that, he had been flying, fighting for his life, the blazing-red grimace of war screaming at him from the skies. Hadn't slept the night before, running through the streets of Cardiff, fighting hope, that had threatened to conquer him and crush his soul under her white hooves. Hadn't eaten anything in the evening, dancing at the Ritz, hiding in the cellar during the air raid, playing cards with his men in the late afternoon … and before that …  
  
"Maybe 36 hours or somethin'," the Captain replied vaguely, making a so-so gesture with his hand. "I'm not sure. I was in my Spitfire when … when it happened. When I crossed through, I mean," he added quickly, looking over at Jack, whose expression was carefully blank now. "In my Spitfire … in a dogfight … I was shot down … and then … there was this light …"  
  
Gwen had let out a shocked gasp at his words, and Toshiko was smiling a sad, knowing smile now.  
  
Owen just nodded. "Listen mate, you might be dead to your people over there, but as long as you're alive and breathing, here's a thought: eating isn't just for sissies and deserters. Real men do it too, you know."

The Captain smiled ruefully, casting his eyes down. "Gotcha, Doc."

"Oh, and Jack …" Owen turned to his boss abruptly. "In case you don't know … _you're an idiot!_ I know, most days, you can't be arsed to care about what happens to the rest of us. But with a man straight out of combat, you could have at least considered stopping at a chip shop and getting him something to eat."  
  
Jack gave his medic a sheepish look. "We had some coffee on the way over."  
  
"Yeah, great," the doctor replied, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Why didn't you let him snort a line of cocaine too while you were at it? In case he wasn't overexcited enough … _You daft or something?_ "

"Does that mean he's okay?" Gwen interrupted the man's rant.

"Let me spell it out for you," Owen sighed. "Hunger and exhaustion! … Hence the mild tachy. His blood sugar is pretty low … I had noticed the cold sweat on his forehead earlier, when we were talking in the boardroom."

 _'He's a good doctor,'_ the Captain realized.

"Basically, he's just dehydrated, and his blood pressure plummeted. That's it," the scrawny medic muttered in irritation. "He might look like dead man walking, but we can safely assume we have a World War II survivor here."

"Well, I feel half-dead, anyway," the Captain remarked with a shy smile.

"You'll be fine," Owen assured him in a bored voice, then turned to his boss again. "Your zombie friend is all right, Jack. Just needs some food in his system and a bed in his near future."  
  
The Captain thought he heard Jack let out a quiet sigh of relief, but he couldn't be sure. The man had already turned away, and it looked as though he were about to dismiss them all when Owen, whose beady little eyes had fixed on the Captain once again, suddenly asked, "Now, second question: what happened to your back, Captain?"  
  
"My back?"  
  
"Yes, your back. You can parrot everything I say. _Or_ , you can actually try and answer my questions," the doctor snapped impatiently. "It's obvious that you're in pain. A blind person could have seen that by the way you were holding yourself earlier in the conference room."  
  
 _'A very good doctor,'_ the Captain thought, subconsciously sitting up even straighter. _'So that's why Jack puts up with him. Should've known there's a reason why he keeps this barrel of laughs around.'_

"I threw out my back," he replied quickly, eliciting a simultaneous hiss of compassion from Gwen and Toshiko.

Jack, who just moments ago had been about to leave, had stopped in his tracks and cringed, an even more sheepish expression on his face now.

"Did you lift something heavy?" Gwen asked with a compassionate grimace. "My cousin was bending over to pick up a keg once and–"

"He's from 1941; what do you _think_ happened?" Owen huffed, rolling his eyes. "They had a war going on there, Gwen."

Not wasting any time, he had grabbed his strange detector device again and was sliding it up and down the Captain's spine now. (Apparently, the thing could x-ray right through the fabric of the Captain's tunic.)

"Happened a couple of weeks ago," the Captain explained quietly. "Should've known it's bad luck for a Spitfire pilot to cheat on his old girl." He smiled to himself. "They wanted me to perform this test flight and … I probably shouldn't be tellin' you this; it's a military secret …" He trailed off.

"That was over sixty years ago," Jack disagreed, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's hardly still classified."

"Nicely banged-up intervertebral disk," Owen suddenly interrupted them, whistling through his teeth; it sounded almost appreciative. He was still staring at his scanning device, which was pressed against the small of the Captain's back now. "Let me guess: this didn't happen when you landed on the ground, did it? It bears all the hallmarks of an ejection seat injury."

"So much for military secret," Jack smiled. "Didn't know you were testing ejection seats already. I thought that wasn't until much later."

"It's all pretty hush-hush," the Captain replied hesitantly. "Was … _was_ pretty hush-hush, I mean," he corrected himself. "They asked me not to tell anyone. Probably thought I wasn't gonna survive it, anyway. The thing was still a prototype, after all. I was the first one to try it out."

"And didn't that scare you?" Gwen asked. "To know you'd be the first one to do something like this?"  

They were all staring at him in some kind of hero-worshipping awe now.

"I volunteered for it," he shrugged a bit uncomfortably.

"So, that's the kind of guy you are?" Gwen whispered. "The kind that just jumps?"

"Guess so," he replied quietly.

There was a short silence, and the Captain thought he saw another knowing spark flare up in Toshiko's eyes.

He cleared his throat. "Actually, the pain was getting better over the last couple of weeks."

"Yes, and then you climbed into that bleeding plane again and got yourself shot down," Owen muttered. "Wham! Nice trauma to your lumbar disks. And that, after sitting in a small, cramped seat for several hours. Tensed up and under stress. With bugger all legroom … Yeah, what a _shocker_ that your back decided to take a turn for the worse."

"Is it bad?" Jack asked before the Captain could even open his mouth.

Owen smirked. "Not as bad as Gwen hallucinating her way through life."

"I wasn't hallucinating, Owen!" Gwen exclaimed, infuriated.

"Let's put it like this," Owen continued, without paying any attention to her. "What Forty-one here has got himself into is not life-threatening … Just hurts like hell," he added with what sounded suspiciously like glee.

 _'Good doctors. A species identifiable by its rough bedside manner,'_ the Captain thought, shaking his head to himself.

"On a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in?" Owen inquired.

"Uh … don't know … four? It was worse earlier, though."

"Just four now, eh? … And you're not just saying this because there are women present and you want to impress them?" Owen smirked.

"No," the Captain replied simply.

There was another short pause as everyone waited for Owen to deliver his final verdict.  
  
"Well, as my … _colleagues_ back in the Dark Ages will have told you, this thing is best treated conservatively: warmth, rest, painkillers and patience. Exercise of the lower back to strengthen the muscles there can be helpful as well. Basically, you will have to live with it. And it'll probably bother you from time to time. Just try and avoid putting too much strain on your back. Also, should Jack really let you join the team, I don't see you doing any Weevil lifting in your future … Lucky sod! … For now, I can give you something for the pain. A local injection should do the trick."

"You're just looking forward to sticking needles in him, Owen," Jack quipped. There was something in the man's bearing, in the way his broad shoulders relaxed under his blue shirt, that spelled relief.

To the Captain's surprise, Owen suddenly turned around and stuck his tongue out at his boss, prompting Gwen and Toshiko to giggle and Jack to mock-pout.

Whatever they had going on here, it was clearly in no way comparable to what the Captain was used to. He wasn't sure what kind of social or military protocol they were following around here, if any at all, and that made him feel more and more like a fish out of water, with no rules to guide him and no principles to stick to, the world slipping away from under his hands like an instrument dissolving under the very fingertips of the musician who was supposed to play it.

It was at this moment that Ianto's voice suddenly rang out from somewhere above their heads. "Soup will be ready in five minutes. He shouldn't have coffee, right?"

The Captain glanced up. Jack's young secretary was standing behind some kind of railing, looking down at them with polite disinterest.  
  
"No. No coffee. Stick with tea … teaboy," Owen snickered under his breath.  
  
" _So_ not aiming for your shoulder next time," came the faint reply as Ianto vanished back into the depths of the Hub.  
  
The Captain felt his brows rise. How, in God's name, had Ianto figured out what he needed? The man hadn't even been in the medical bay when Owen had announced his diagnosis. Apparently, he was pretty observant, this young butler-secretary-assistant or whoever he was.

"We'll start with a first round of vaccinations tomorrow, mate. Time for your painkillers now," Owen continued undeterred, grabbing a syringe off his desk and turning back toward the Captain. "Okay, Gary Cooper, drop your trousers for me."  
  
The Captain felt himself flush bright red at that, his cheeks burning almost painfully. "Uh …"

He was not doing this in front of the ladies … and _certainly_ not in front of Jack.  
  
"Oh, right … Shoo!" Owen exclaimed. "Girls, back to your knitting jobs or to whatever it is you do around here … And by 'girls' I mean you too, Jack. Get lost."  
  
As soon as the others had trudged up the stairs and disappeared from sight, Owen made good on Jack's earlier warning and jabbed his needle roughly into the Captain's exposed hip.  
  
"This should help," he muttered. "Painkiller. Anti-inflammatory and muscle relaxant. The good stuff. My own special cocktail … There you go. Now, press this to the injection site for a minute." He handed the Captain a cotton ball and turned away, leaving his patient standing in front of the exam table.  
  
From the corner of his eye, the Captain could see the man rummaging through the mess of papers and medical equipment littering his desk.  
  
It was a bit embarrassing to be standing there on shaking legs, one hand holding up his open uniform trousers, the other one pressing the cotton ball to the injection site, praying silently that the rest of the group wouldn't suddenly decide to drop back in for a second.

"I'd put those trousers back on before returning to the conference room. The girls were already eyeballing you enough as it was … But first of all … er … Ah, there it is …" Something came flying toward the Captain, hitting him square in the neck. "Here you go. You can apply the elastoplast yourself, I suppose."  
  
The Captain turned around and picked up the item that had been thrown at him.

It was a box of sticking plasters.  
  
 _'Very rough bedside manner.'_

 

  
  
ΨΨΨ

 

  
Back in the conference room, Ianto was already waiting for the Captain with a tray of food. There was a bowl of steaming hot soup on it, some bread, a mug of tea, and a sugar bowl.  
  
The Captain's slender hand was trembling slightly when he picked up the teaspoon, and he felt vaguely uncomfortable about the prospect of being the only one eating while a bunch of strangers stared at his every move as if he were some rare animal.

He glanced up at Ianto, giving him a half-nervous, half-grateful smile, and got a calm nod in return before the man quietly slipped out of the room.  
  
Ignoring the stares from the others, the Captain started to shovel down the food in front of him, only now realizing how hungry he was. Apparently, it had crept up on him without him even noticing, had lain in wait for him while he had been flying and fighting and traveling through time and space …

After conquest and war, this third daunting beast had weighed the Captain in its black scales and struck him to the ground … And the coin was still flying, flying, tumbling through the air. Heads. Tails. Heads. Tails. And slowly, slowly, it was nearing the end of its journey, and it would land on its edge and roll along the path of his life and fall and reveal his fate. But not before something else would have arisen. Something cold, something old, something ashen. Cutting short his lifeline with a pale scythe …

"At this rate, your teeth are going to rot out of your skull by next week."

The Captain flinched. "Sorry?"

"Just counting how many spoons of sugar you're putting in your tea," Owen barked from across the table. "But then again, that's probably the best thing you can do for your blood sugar level right now."

Toshiko gave the Captain an apologetic, tight-lipped smile. "Yes, or _maybe_ he's just arrived from a time where they still had rationing, Owen," she hissed.

The Captain glanced over at Jack, who hadn't so much as looked in his direction since the whole ordeal in the medical bay. The man was sitting in a corner, quietly conversing with Gwen. From their flushed faces, it was obvious that they were still arguing. But apparently, they were now making an effort to keep their voices down, and only snatches of the whispered conversation could be heard from their end of the room:

"We don't even have any vacancies, Jack." "We do. You just don't know about that yet …" "Do you even trust me? What's your real name? Who _are_ you?" "Nobody. I told you. I don't exist." "…You can't just let him join the team …" "You could try to obey orders, Gwen. At least every once in a while …" "Jack, you can't just shut us out like this." "And you can't just refuse to retcon Rhys …"

They were just annoyed hisses and snarls, whispered in suppressed anger, but Owen's and Toshiko's eyes kept shifting to the other end of the table, which made them look like kids scared by their parents' fighting. And the metaphor extended even further, the Captain realized. Owen and Toshiko were basically treating him as if they were his big brother and sister, talking to each other without actually paying any attention to 'the little one' who was supposed to eat up like a good boy while the grown-ups had important things to discuss.

To a Group Captain, who was used to being respected by his fellow officers at the Squadron, this kind of patronizing behavior was very unsettling. But somehow, he was too exhausted to even care anymore. And the numbness spreading throughout his body was so overpowering that he almost hadn't felt the twinge in his guts at getting the cold shoulder from Jack. Almost.

"I think I know how this is going to end," Owen suddenly snarled in Toshiko's general direction. "Jack is going to get his way. He always does."

The Captain took another bite of his bread and watched as Toshiko's fine brows darted together in confusion.

"You know why?" Owen continued.  "Because we're still shitting ourselves at the thought that he might leave us again."

"And rightly so," Toshiko whispered almost imperceptibly.

The Captain just continued wolfing down his food, not sure where this was going and if he was even supposed to hear any of it. It seemed as though they had forgotten he was there.

"It's true; we're so scared that Jack might snap and run off again that we'll do _anything_ just to keep him from leaving," Owen snorted derisively. "And it's not a far stretch, is it? I mean, he's changed completely ever since he came back."

"Well, not _completely_ …" Toshiko muttered.

"Oh, yeah?" Owen scoffed. "Remember how much fun he used to be? I mean, you and Gwen were going on and on about how he was such a 'flirt' and how he made you laugh. And look at him _now_ , carrying the sadness of the bloody universe on his shoulders. There isn't enough Prozac in the world for whatever he's got going on there."

"What's Prozac?" the Captain chimed in, asking the first question that came to his mind.

"Work here long enough, and you'll find out," Owen snapped and turned back to Toshiko, instantly forgetting about the Captain again. He could as well have said, _'Eat your vegetables and behave.'_

"Anyway," Owen continued unperturbed, "whatever happened to Jack when he was away must've been pretty bad. I mean, look at him. He looks sadder than a vegetarian these days."

"You shouldn't make jokes about that, Owen," Toshiko admonished the medic. "Not after what happened to that space whale."

 _'Okay, here we go again,'_ the Captain sighed inwardly. _'Space whale? What the hell?'_

"And anyway, right now I'm more interested in finding out what caused that CCTV problem earlier," Toshiko pointed out. "I mean, Gwen could be right and–"  
  
"Oh, bollocks! You know she's just seeing things," Owen interrupted her. "And as for the CCTV, maybe it was just … erm … under the weather. Literally, I mean. The rain, the wind, this unholy Welsh cold … That reminds me, shouldn't we get the dead Weevils out of Gwen's car and into the freezer?"  
  
"I think that's what Ianto's doing this very moment," Toshiko replied quietly.  
  
Gwen's conversation with Jack seemed to have come to an end, and the woman was now making her way over to the rest of the group, plopping down in the seat next to the Captain.

The next thing he knew, her hand had landed on his forearm, white skin pale against the dark wool of his sleeve, diamond ring sparkling in the bright light of the room. "You alright, love? Feeling better now?" she asked with a hint of a compassionate smile in her eyes.  
  
It was simply astounding how a person who, less than an hour ago, had seemed so eager to prevent his joining the team, shouting and screaming at her boss, was now addressing him as 'love'.

 _'Women!'_ the Captain thought, shaking his head to himself again.  
  
"Where is he going to sleep, Jack?" Gwen asked, not even waiting for the Captain's response. "Should we ring the hostel we rang last time?"  
  
There was a short pause as everyone looked up at Jack.  
  
"No," the man replied from where he was still sitting at the other end of the table, his voice strangely quiet. "He can … stay with me."  
  
"Are you sure, Jack? He can stay with me and Rhys," Gwen offered and turned to the Captain again. "That's my fiancé," she explained unnecessarily, beaming at him brightly.  
  
For some reason, Owen chose this moment to roll his eyes.  
  
"He'll stay with me," Jack said, squaring his jaw. There was a strange finality in his voice. "Now, 'bout tomorrow–"  
  
"No bloody way!" Owen groaned. "Tomorrow's Saturday … You want a flying ace on your team? Fine! But don't play that ace to trick us into working on–"  
  
"You will come in in the morning," Jack continued, talking loudly over the doctor's angry protests, "and we're gonna discuss your respective tasks in the Captain's training."  
  
It seemed as if Owen and Gwen were about to start a new argument, but this time, it took just one weary look from Jack to shut them up.  
  
They quickly bid their goodbyes after that, with Owen just grunting something in the Captain's direction that sounded like, "Go take a shower, mate. You stink like a petrol station on fire."

Toshiko, for her part, didn't seem bothered by this at all and insisted on hugging the Captain once more before she left. It was a surprisingly tight embrace for such a petite woman, and for a second, the Captain didn't know how to react, baffled and flustered as he was. Over her shoulder, he could see Owen roll his eyes again.

When Gwen bid him goodnight, the Captain got to hear her surprised giggle once more. (Apparently, being addressed as 'ma'am' by a uniformed stranger wasn't usually part of her everyday life.)

It was just before the door closed that Jack finally cleared his throat and called out, "Oh, and Owen … Good job today." Which earned him a grumbled, vaguely cordial, "Slavedriver!" from the medic.

Then the door fell shut, and the Captain was left in his namesake's company once again.  
  
An awkward silence ensued, stretching out infinitely like a shifting sand dune on the ocean shore, its horizon expanding with every step. Never-ending. Deserted and melancholy.  
  
The Captain quickly gulped down the last of his heavenly sweet tea and looked up at Jack, who was standing there, shirt-sleeves rolled up, tanned arms folded across his chest, pensively staring off into some unknown distance, as though he, too, were hearing the soft trickle of sand grains between them, the powerful and desperate gush of waves as the surf of Time crashed against the lonely shore …  
  
The Captain set down his empty tea mug.

The soft click of ceramic on wood seemed to echo in the silent room, causing Jack to flinch and turn to the Captain. "Come on."  
  
 _'I'm gonna leave this strange place now,'_ the Captain thought, following the other man out of the conference room. He would get out of here, see the city, maybe even figure out what was going on. And, yes, he was a bit curious to see where Jack lived. What would his place look like? What would it tell the Captain about its mysterious owner?  
  
To the Captain's great surprise, however, they didn't step through the cog door again, running up a few stairs instead.

The room they entered was obviously Jack's office. It was separated from the main atrium by thick glass walls, the large wooden desk covered with all sorts of strange items: a big screen, towering stacks of paper and … Was that a model plane?  
  
"That way!" Jack suddenly interrupted the Captain's thoughts, jerking his chin in the direction of a dark corner of the room, where the Captain could vaguely discern what appeared to be a gaping hole in the floor, a few rungs of a metal ladder glinting silvery in the darkness.  
  
A few moments later, they found themselves in the small room below Jack's office, and it was only now that the Captain realized it. _'That's where he lives. We're not going anywhere. He lives on base. In this_ … _bunker.'_  
  
There was a narrow bed pushed against the wall, next to an antique wardrobe that seemed far too big for the tiny room, what with its heavy oak doors and the oval mirror on its front.

The other walls were lined with bookshelves. _'Hundreds and hundreds of book_ s, _'_ the Captain marveled. More books than anyone could possibly read in one lifetime. Their smell, the comforting, soft smell of yellowing paper seemed to fill the air.

The bookshelves barely left any room for the two doors he could make out in the half-light – one ajar, leading to a small tiled bathroom, the other one closed.

An old armchair, its leather worn-out at the seams, with a brass floor lamp beside its armrest, added to the impression that this room had been serving as some kind of reading nook for over a hundred years already.

"You can have the bed," Jack said, his voice quiet and low.  
  
The Captain cast down his eyes and smiled shyly, trying to avoid the man's intense gaze. "What about you?" He could vaguely recall having seen a couch somewhere in the Hub. "I don't wanna cause you any trouble; I can take the couch," he offered.  
  
Jack smiled back at him, blue eyes glinting strangely in the dark. "Owen would kill me if I let you sleep on the couch," he said, his deep voice sending a shiver down the Captain's aching spine. "Don't worry 'bout me." He nodded toward the half-open door. "Bathroom's through there."  
  
Maybe it was just sheer exhaustion, but the Captain found he couldn't argue with Jack's retreating back as the man climbed up the ladder again.  
  
He staggered into the bathroom and let his uniform slide to the floor like a burden off his shoulders, wondering briefly if he was going to fall asleep right there, in the shower.  
  
The water was warm. Pure heaven. Nothing like the cold or lukewarm showers he had grown so accustomed to. Being billeted in a barrack meant you had to get used to the water in the communal showers running out on you more often than not – and _always_ for no apparent reason whatsoever.

But apparently, Torchwood Three didn't have that problem – as they seemed to have an endless supply of hot water at their disposal around here – and the Captain simply stood under the warm spray for what felt like ages, white steam billowing around him, eyes closed and one arm braced against the wall to keep himself from collapsing, sighing silently as his cramped back muscles began to unlock one by one.

He was too tired to care what it was that he was lathering himself up with, as long as it would wash away the day's aches and pains. There were far too many different bottles and jars in Jack's shower to figure out what was what, anyway. _'What's wrong with these people? Doesn't a good old soap bar do the trick anymore?'_  
  
When he finally turned off the water, the whole bathroom was steamed up.

He stepped out of the shower and bumped into a chair that hadn't been there earlier.

The Captain's eyes flickered to the closed door. _'Jack must've come in here while I was showering.'_

His uniform was gone, and someone had put a towel, a neatly folded pair of pajamas, and an unused toothbrush on the chair.  
  
Could Jack have seen him in there? The Captain felt a warm flush wash over his body.  
  
The glass doors of the shower were still pretty fogged up, mostly obscuring what was inside. Still, it felt strange to know that the other man had somehow managed to enter the room so quietly that he hadn't noticed him.  
  
A few minutes later, the Captain shuffled out of the bathroom, his feet bare, his hair still damp, wearing a pair of striped pajamas that didn't look too different from his own ones back in 1941, although they hung a bit loosely about his slim frame where Jack was broader in his shoulders and chest, which made them very comfortable to wear. The old, worn-out fabric smelled of Jack, a pleasant, warm scent that had invaded the Captain's brain instantly.  
  
He sat down on the bed.

Pale light was trickling in through the open hatch – probably from Jack's desk lamp – and the Captain could hear the rustle of paper as Jack turned a page.  
  
 _'He can hear me,'_ he realized with a vague sense of unease.  
  
If he could hear Jack turning pages, then the man could probably hear the Captain's every breath. And that meant they both knew they could hear each other …  
  
What was the etiquette in such a situation? Was he supposed to say something? Or would they both remain silent and pretend that they hadn't noticed anything, holding their breaths and trying to ignore the rustling of paper and linen, respectively?  
  
The Captain gingerly stretched out on the bed, a few bedsprings creaking despite his best efforts to be as quiet as humanly possible.

Upstairs, Jack cleared his throat; it sounded as though he were trying to suppress the sound.  
  
But either Owen's 'good stuff' had finally worked its magic on the Captain, or the warm water had done its job. In any case, his back was starting to relax into the mattress now.

He closed his eyes, breathing in Jack's heady scent on the pillow, the scent of warm skin and soft hair and old books … and fell asleep, dreaming of rustling wings gently sweeping the air and the sound of a hauntingly sad melody floating above him like a guardian angel.

 

  
  
ΨΨΨ

 

  
At first, he couldn't work out why he had woken up, or _if_ he had woken up at all. Somewhere upstairs, hushed voices were whispering something he could only half make sense of.  
  
"… and when do you intend to write up the report for UNIT?"  
  
The Captain recognized the deep, subdued voice. _'Ianto. That's his Welsh accent,'_ a distant part of his brain provided.

He opened his eyes blearily and yawned; he felt incredibly warm and comfortable, every limb heavy with sleep.  
  
"Dunno. Sometime over the weekend?"  
  
 _'Jack. Right, the other low voice is his.'_

The Captain slowly turned in bed, squinting into the darkness; the clock on the wall read 1:30 am. _'Can't have slept for very long, then_ … _What are they doing chattering away in the middle of the night? Can't they just sleep like everyone else?'_ he yawned, shifting under the covers again, settling in more comfortably.

"You really should, you know … Well, let me see … What else have I got? … er … I need your signature here and here. We got the go-ahead from UNIT on the Copley situation. The Foreign Office phoned about this French thing again. And we still have to talk about the upcoming conference in–"

"I hate all this paperwork," Jack muttered in irritation. "What country, what world are we living in that they can do this to us?!"

"O di immortales!" Ianto replied with a low chuckle.

 _'What's Ianto doing here, anyway?'_ the Captain wondered. _'Didn't he go home when the others left for the night?'_ He turned his head into the pillow again, not wanting to eavesdrop.  
  
"You really should go home, Ianto," Jack's voice resounded from upstairs, drifting through the open hatch.  
  
So much for not eavesdropping. It was kind of unavoidable when they raised their voices like that.  
  
"Shhh … Jack, you're going to wake him," Ianto whispered.  
  
"He's fast asleep. Don't worry," the other man replied, lowering his voice nonetheless.  
  
How could Jack know that? He hadn't been down here and checked on him, had he?

"I checked on him," came Jack's immediate clarification.

_'Oh, great! Just what I needed.'_

"Checked on him in the shower too," Jack added.

The Captain groaned inwardly.

"I mean, I had to make sure he didn't slip or anything, hadn't I? What with all the meds Owen pumped him full of … But he was okay. Just standing there under the water, bracing himself against the wall."  
  
This was just getting better and better.  
  
"How is he, anyway?" Ianto's faint voice inquired upstairs.  
  
The Captain realized that he was wide awake now. He really didn't want to be listening in on their conversation without them knowing, and he was about to clear his throat to alert them to the fact that he had woken up when Jack said something that made him stifle every sound.  
  
"Still in shock, I guess. And quite understandably so. It'll take time for him to recover and adapt. It took me a _long_ time to recover from World War II …"  
  
"He might have a slower recovery rate than you."  
  
"I didn't mean physically," Jack's soft voice replied. "… Six long years of war … I was there. The entire time." His whisper came out hoarse and hurried.  
  
The Captain felt his eyes widen in the darkness.  
  
"Really? I had no idea," Ianto said quietly.  
  
There was a short pause upstairs.  
  
Then Jack cleared his throat. "Actually, I'm a little worried about the others," he suddenly changed the topic. "Who could've known Owen would throw such a tantrum?"  
  
"Oh, you know how he is. Don't take it too seriously. It's Owen. Rough on the outside, heart of gold …"  
  
Jack chuckled dryly. "Says the man who almost put a bullet in that heart!"  
  
"Water under the bridge," the Welshman muttered dismissively. "Gwen will be harder to convince, you know."

"Yeah, because she really cares …" Jack's voice trailed off.  
  
It was strange, the way they were talking with each other. The Captain couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but there was something oddly intimate about it. It didn't at all sound like a conversation between employer and employee. More like one between two friends, two very close friends … _'Between two people who seem to know each other pretty well,'_ he mused. _'Very old friends, maybe. Acting like brothers who know each other's quirks and ways and little secrets_ … _'_

And here he had thought that Ianto was Jack's secretary! Nothing was what it seemed here at Torchwood – or so it seemed …  
  
Another silence.  
  
"You should really be heading home, Ianto."  
  
"Almost gone already," the young man replied, a small smile clearly audible in his soft voice.  
  
"No, I mean it! You've got someone waiting for you at home. Don't let that slip!" Jack's voice sounded strangely wistful, bringing back to the Captain the moment on that balcony at the Ritz. _'No. There's no one,'_ Jack had said, a world of quiet devastation compressed into that short sentence.  
  
"I won't. I know what I have there," Ianto replied with calm certainty.

Then the Captain could hear the Welshman's light footsteps cross the room and the sound of a door being opened. "Just had a lot to finish up today. It was a long day, Jack."  
  
"I know … Thank you, Ianto," Jack breathed.  
  
Another short pause.  
  
And then suddenly, something shifted, and Ianto's voice changed. "Jack?! Are you alright? … Oh, come here …" The young man seemed to have turned around, his quick footsteps crossing the room again. Right above the Captain's head. And shortly after that, the faint rustle of clothes could be heard. _  
  
'They're hugging,'_ the Captain realized, feeling his jaw drop. Now he definitely had no intention of drawing attention to himself anymore.  
  
He could hear someone taking deep breaths.

Jack.

Ianto's voice was whispering something too low for the Captain to hear.  
  
"… so close," Jack said, his voice half-muffled, as he was apparently talking into Ianto's shoulder.  
  
"But it's over now," the young man replied patiently.  
  
"You've got no idea how close it was …" There was a barely discernible tremor in Jack's voice.  
  
"But you made it, Jack."  
  
"He would have burned alive in that plane," the man whispered.  
  
The Captain felt his eyes widen even more.

"But he _didn't_ ," Ianto said.  
  
"It was incredibly difficult to locate the right spot over the open sea … Even knowing the coordinates …" Jack's voice was clearly audible now. Apparently, he and Ianto had stepped away from each other. "They must have covered quite a distance while fighting, zigzagging all over the place. Which is probably why the coordinates weren't that helpful … I kept looking out for the Messerschmitts, but they wouldn't even show up on the spaceship's radar. Took me quite some time to track them down. When I finally spotted them, I wasn't sure if I was too late already."  
  
"You weren't," Ianto said in a calming voice.  
  
And that was when it suddenly hit the Captain. _'Ianto knows about the ship!_ _He knows how I got here!'_  
  
"It was so close," Jack whispered. "His Spitfire was already on fire when I caught sight of them. I had about a split second to aim that beam at the thing and get him out of there … _God!_ " Jack's voice sounded as though he had wiped a hand over his face. "Only this one chance, this one opportunity to go back to 1941, only this one shot … and I almost blew it. One second later, and he'd have died … Everything would have been in vain."  
  
"But he survived," Ianto reminded him softly.  
  
Jack drew in a shaky breath, making a hoarse sound in the back of his throat. "His clothes smelled of smoke when I beamed him up, and his leather jacket was already half-ruined from the sparks. It's a miracle the flames didn't burn his face …"

"You don't believe in miracles," Ianto pointed out.

But Jack wasn't paying him any attention. "I dragged him onto the bed, pulled off his flight jacket, checked him for life signs. And then … then I must've sort of … uh … thrown out his jacket, actually," he whispered distraught.

"Out?" Ianto asked. "Out where?"

"What do you think?"

"Are you telling me there's a pilot jacket circling the earth in outer space? In 1941?"

"And a life preserver," Jack admitted sheepishly.

"You can't be serious! … So, technically, you're the one who's responsible for the first piece of space debris in human history? Bravo, Jack!" Ianto remarked sardonically.

"Look, I was upset, okay?" Jack defended himself. "He was out cold, and I still wasn't sure he was even okay. I had to take it out on _something_ … It was this or punch a wall."

"And you're _so_ above that, of course," Ianto quipped quietly.

There was another short silence. "If I hadn't made it in time, he would have …" Jack's voice trailed off again.  
  
"Fate was on your side, Jack."  
  
"I don't believe in fate," Jack replied, a sad smile in his voice.  
  
"I know …"  
  
There was another pause, and the Captain didn't dare to breathe.

"You should try to sleep, Jack."  
  
"Can't."  
  
"Then try harder."  
  
"Oh, you know how I am …"  
  
"Jack, you're wearing yourself out."  
  
Another pause.  
  
"It was a long day," Jack whispered.  
  
"Indeed."  
  
The Captain didn't hear much after that. Just the light tread of feet above him and the soft click of the office door being closed, indicating that Ianto had left for the night.

Then … there was the sound of a chair creaking as Jack sat down again.  
  
The Captain lay awake for a long time after that, staring at the ceiling and the shadows the ladder cast on the wall, black and white and black and white, like piano keys.

He was acutely aware of the fact that Jack hadn't switched off his desk light, the faint sound of pages being turned indicating that the man was working again.

* * *

 


	8. Modern Times

**8\. Chapter: Modern Times** Soundtrack: Tape Five "Bad Boy Good Man"

When he opened his eyes, he felt confused and disoriented. _  
  
_Then he remembered. _'Right. Torchwood. The Hub. Jack's bed_ … _Oh, my God, I'm in Jack's bed!'_

Within seconds, he was vertical, immediately noticing how much better he felt already, the pain in his lower back having subsided to a barely noticeable, dull ache.  
  
His gaze fell upon the clock. _'Almost 11:30 am,'_ he realized with a sudden jolt.

He had overslept. Badly.

 _'There was no reveille or anything, was there?'_ he wondered, hurrying over to the bathroom in fast strides. He couldn't remember when he had last slept in that long, if ever.  
  
When he came rushing out of the bathroom again a few moments later, the Captain was surprised to realize that Jack's booming voice was addressing him through the open hatch. "Hey … _Hey!_ You awake?"  
  
"Uh … yes," the Captain replied, fighting the sudden urge to stand to attention.  
  
But Jack didn't come climbing down the ladder, apparently having decided to remain seated behind his desk instead, where the Captain couldn't see him. Maybe the man was trying to give him some privacy, or maybe it was just a coincidence. In any case, the Captain felt rather relieved about it. Jack really didn't need to see him in his pajamas. _'Ridiculous thought, actually,'_ he realized. _'What's to see? They're his pajamas, after all.' _ But he was still dumbfounded by the fact that Jack had chosen to break their night-time silence and was now acknowledging his presence in his living quarters.  
  
"I brought you some clothes," Jack shouted from above, a rustling noise indicating that the man was rummaging through the papers on his desk. "D'you see them?"  
  
The Captain looked around; there were several suits and shirts hanging on hangers on the wardrobe door.

_'So, Jack's been down here more than just the once, huh?'_

He shivered.  
  
"They're Ianto's," Jack's invisible voice continued from above. "He said better his than mine. What with you two being the same size and all … Well, at least that's what he said. And I never doubt his judgement when it comes to clothes." The Captain could just picture the impish grin on Jack's face at that.  
  
Had he really overheard the man having a breakdown in the middle of the night? It felt like a distant dream now. Maybe he had just imagined large chunks of that conversation. After all, he had been pretty high on pain meds last night. High as the sky and deep as the ocean. Wasn't that how that tune by this Irving Berlin fella went? Or was he misremembering that?  
  
"Also, Ianto said giving you a couple of good old suits would be the only way to make sure you don't throw up on your clothes straight away," Jack's dry chuckle interrupted the Captain's musings.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
There was another chuckle from upstairs. "Well … he might have _implied_ you'd just get sick at the sight of today's fashion."  
  
"He could be right on that, you know," the Captain smiled.  
  
"Too bad," Jack laughed. "Owen would probably be more than willing to share his ripped jeans and crumpled t-shirts with you … Relax," he added in a reassuring voice. "It's all just temporary. Soon's you start getting paid, you can go buy your own stuff … Oh, by the way, I left a duffel bag for you somewhere. Do you see it?"  
  
It was funny, the way they kept talking to each other without actually seeing each other's faces. _'Maybe that's why it's so easy all of a sudden,'_ the Captain mused.  
  
He spotted the bag on the ancient leather armchair in the corner.  
  
"Ianto went out and bought some stuff you might need," Jack's voice announced from above as the Captain's nimble fingers pulled the bag open, revealing socks, underwear, a razor … _'Thank God,'_ he thought, running his hand over his unshaven jaw.  
  
"Your Ianto is a marvel," he said out loud, feeling the corner of his lips curl up in a warm smile.  
  
"Oh, just wait till you taste the coffee," came Jack's mysterious reply.  
  
A few moments of silence went by; then Jack cleared his throat. "Lunch break's in a few minutes in the conference room. Ianto sent me to fetch you."  
  
The Captain drummed his fingers against the canvas of the bag nervously. "Um … I meant to ask … Did I miss the bugle call or somethin'? 'Cause I don't think I've ever overslept like this before … It won't happen again, you know."

The rummaging upstairs stopped. Apparently, Jack had found what he had been looking for.

"Don't worry. Owen said you should rest," his quiet voice replied. "And technically, I'm not even your boss yet." For some reason, the Captain thought there was a smirk in the other man's voice now. "Still plenty of time for me to turn into a sadistic commanding officer once you've signed your contract."  
  
"Empty threats," the Captain muttered, feeling himself smile involuntarily again. "Just like Owen's jokes about shooting you yesterday."  
  
"Oh, you'd be surprised …" Jack replied with a dark laugh, the sound of the door closing indicating that the man had left his office.

 

  
ΨΨΨ

 

Shaving felt good.

It always had. With bombs turning everything around them into smoldering rubble, with the wail of the scramble siren forcing them to knock over chairs and run for their planes time and time again, with some men simply not returning from their latest sortie and leaving even more empty chairs in the mess for them to knock over, it had always felt like restoring the last remainder of civilization they had any control over, like erasing at least some of the hellish chaos around them. No matter how dark the circles under their eyes, no matter how rough their voices had become from screaming by themselves in their cockpits, no matter how much they had all wanted to just drink themselves into oblivion, their hair had always been brilliantined, their cheeks had always been smooth. And even now, it shocked the Captain to think of how some of them had looked almost too young to be shaving at all and had been doing so, anyway. With shaking hands, inevitable cigarette stuck between their boyish lips, razor sliding through the white foam around the glowing stub.

The Captain watched the razor glide over the long planes of his face in the bathroom mirror, in that strange triptych that contained no paradise lost, no infernal demons, and no burning city, just his narrowed green eyes under dark lashes, reflected perpetually in-between the three panels. And as his face began to reappear from under the shaving cream, black shadow of stubble vanishing and high cheekbones becoming more pronounced again, he thought of Jack's warm hand on his neck and almost cut himself in the process.

Teeth clenched, lips pressed together tightly, he forced himself to keep his eyes on his hand in the mirror, a hand that was now moving up the column of his throat and under his raised chin in short, quick strokes, all tendons in his neck straining, water droplets running down onto his chest.

Where had all those fine lines on his forehead actually come from, he wondered, finally lowering the razor and leaning forward, bringing his face closer to the mirror. They were barely visible, yet undeniably there whenever he furrowed his brow in concentration. _'Getting old, pal!'_ he told his reflection, shaking his head with a wry smile and grabbing a towel. _  
  
_With a deep sigh of relief, he then fished a tube of Brylcreem out of the bag Jack had left for him, figuring that a world in which they still had Brylcreem couldn't be _that_ bad, after all. Brylcreem and Benny Goodman. (He would have to check about the latter, though.)  
  
Fortunately, it also turned out that Ianto really knew his stuff and his clothes fit the Captain perfectly. Suits were apparently cut a bit slimmer these days, and the single-breasted jacket seemed to sit unfamiliarly tight around his shoulders. But all in all, this was still the next best thing to wearing a uniform, he reckoned. Suits were familiar territory.  
  
Why today's underwear had gone all black and navy-blue, though, he couldn't figure out for the life of him. _'The world after the year 2000: expect flying cars and get navy underpants!'_ He shook his head again.

Before he left, the Captain remembered to reach into the pocket of his crumpled uniform, which was hanging alongside Ianto's suits and shirts, and retrieve his battered cigarette pack. As he had suspected, its contents had been completely ruined by yesterday's rain, and with a sigh of regret, he emptied the packet of the pulpy lump his smokes had turned into, slipping the empty thing into the pocket of the suit he was now wearing. He didn't even know why he did it. Maybe for good luck. Or maybe as a souvenir. _'Not just gettin' old, but sentimental as well,'_ he thought with a smile.  
  
And then he was already climbing up the ladder, the soles of Ianto's expensive shoes silent against its metal rungs.

  
  
ΨΨΨ

  
  
When he stepped out of Jack's empty office and into the equally deserted main atrium of the Hub, he realized that he needed a moment to orient himself. Yesterday he had been too tired and in too much pain to really take in his surroundings and memorize the route they had taken through the labyrinth of dark corridors and stairwells.

He jogged down a few steps, plain civilian suit feeling strangely light on his body.  
  
It happened completely out of the blue. With an ear-splitting shriek, something big came shooting down from the high ceiling, causing the Captain to stumble back up a step in surprise, memories of flying shrapnel, firebombs and wailing Stukas resurfacing full force. For a moment, it felt as though his heart would give out any second.  
  
It wasn't a bomb, though; it was an animal. Some dark bird of death or giant ugly bat, spikes stretching its leathery, gray wings and making them look like two oversized umbrellas. Its sharp beak didn't exactly look reassuring either, and the Captain felt himself shiver as the nightmarish creature landed on the railing beside him, sitting there like a carved gargoyle on the roof of some medieval church.

"Shoo!" he hissed, heart still pounding hard in his chest.

The creature let out a hollow cry and made a clumsy step toward him.  
  
"Oookay, my friend. You're stayin' right where you are. Is that clear?"  
  
The beast let out another miserable cry.  
  
" _There_ you are!" a cheerful voice suddenly exclaimed behind him. "Are you lost, love?" The Captain quickly glanced over his shoulder.

It was Gwen.  
  
The dark-haired Welshwoman was smiling up at him in a friendly, inquiring manner.  
  
"Don't move," he ordered, seeing her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

As an officer, it was drilled into him that it was his responsibility to protect any civilian present. Even if you got caught in an air raid while on leave, you were supposed to keep a clear head and help the ARP wardens direct women and children to the shelter. Staying calm and helping always took priority over getting oneself to safety.

"Don't move," he hissed again. He was fully prepared to tackle the creature should it suddenly decide to attack. Now it was just important that Gwen kept out of the way of its sharp claws.  
  
"What?" There was a disbelieving smile in the woman's voice. "You alright, love?"  
  
"Don't come nearer. I'll deal with it," he ordered sharply, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. He had drawn himself up to his full height and was squaring his shoulders to shield the woman from any potentially harmful blows.  
  
"Is that Ianto's suit?" Gwen's cheerful voice inquired somewhere behind his back.  
  
"Huh?" the Captain managed to bite out, distracted by the beast letting out yet another piercing shriek.  
  
"Looks good on you. Very James Bond," came Gwen's reply, a wide grin evident in her voice. (She actually had the nerve to whistle at him.)  
  
"Who?"

What was wrong with this woman? He was trying to protect her from this … this thing. Didn't she understand that?  
  
"It's just that she probably recognizes the suit," Gwen's voice surprised him again.  
  
" _She?_ "  
  
"Myfanwy, yes. She's our pet."  
  
He felt his shoulders relax slightly. "Are you sayin' it's harmless?" he asked, feeling rather stupid all of a sudden.  
  
"Well, apart from the occasional scratch …" Gwen shrugged. "She only mutilates poor Welsh sheep."  
  
"How reassuring. What _is_ it?"  
  
"Ianto's little darling," she chuckled. "Which is also why you've got nothing to worry about. She probably thinks you're his big brother or something."  
  
The Captain started to back away from the animal step by step, and suddenly, it let out a long, drawn-out, pitiful wail.  
  
"I think she likes you."  
  
Somehow, the Captain doubted that.  
  
"Come on. They're waiting for us. Owen was already gnawing the varnish off the furniture when they told me to go get you."

 

  
  
ΨΨΨ

 

  
  
The rest of the team sat assembled around the conference table – only Ianto was nowhere to be seen – and upon entering the room, the Captain was greeted by Owen mock-cheering and clapping his hands. "Whoa, look who's here, everyone. Flyboy finally managed to touch down."  
  
"Owen!" Toshiko hissed, a note of warning in her voice.  
  
"What?" the doctor mouthed. "He took his sweet time, didn't he?"  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, the Captain could see Jack staring at him, and maybe he was wrong, but for a split second, it seemed as though the man were giving him a quick once-over, blue eyes flicking up and down the Captain's body, then sliding away again. For some reason, the man's usual bravado seemed to have deserted him, and there was something akin to nervousness in those intense pools of blue and in the way he briefly moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. As if there were a deeply suppressed, quivering hunger simmering right below Jack's diaphragm, a hunger that the man wasn't aware of or didn't dare to acknowledge.

The Captain gulped uncomfortably and quickly sat down beside Toshiko, who had already pulled out a chair for him.  
  
"Is that one of Ianto's Pierce Brosnan _Brionis_?" she asked him, gesturing at his suit. "Looks … very handsome." The Captain could see her pale cheeks blush furiously at that, feeling his unease increase threefold. When had wearing civilian clothes become this big of a deal, actually? And why did he suddenly feel as if he were stark naked in front of a crowd of people who were all dressed?

But before he could so much as ask who this mysterious Pierce fella was, Owen was muttering something equally enigmatic under his breath. "God help us! Another wannabe 007."

It was Gwen who decided to break the tension then. Without so much as sparing the growling doctor a glance, she pulled out a chair and sat down, playfully slapping the Captain on the shoulder and exclaiming, "See? I told you! You look gorgeous in that suit." Her voice had a blithely unconcerned tone to it. "By the way, it wasn't the Captain's fault," she explained, addressing the room. "We were held up by Myfanwy. Poor thing was practically throwing herself at him."

"Unlike everybody else around here," Owen muttered sarcastically.

"I'm sorry I kept y'all waiting," the Captain finally managed to get out.

Owen didn't even seem to listen to him, glaring at his boss instead. "Can we start eating now?" he asked in a loud, whiny voice, jerking his thumb in the direction of a tray of sandwiches that lay untouched on the table.  
  
" _Now_ you can," Jack nodded, a trace of an almost paternal smile creasing the corner of his twinkling eyes.  
  
And just like that, Owen lunged diagonally across the conference table, grabbing a sandwich with each of his hands and proceeding to somehow shove both of them into his mouth.  
  
"You could have just dragged yourself out of bed a little earlier, Owen," Gwen reprimanded him, taking a sandwich herself. "This way, you would have managed breakfast _before_ coming in. Instead, you swan in at eleven, complain about being hungry and expect Ianto to get you something to eat … Just come in at eight like everyone else next time."  
  
"You'd just think I was replaced by an alien impostor," Owen mumbled around a large bite of sandwich.  
  
They all started eating now, chewing on bread and cucumbers and letting out appreciative hums and grunts. Each sandwich was cut into neat triangles and had its crust carefully removed. (Something Ianto had seen to, no doubt.) The only thing that seemed to be missing was a nice cup of tea or …

  
"Did Myfanwy scare you?" Toshiko's voice startled the Captain out of his thoughts. "I was terrified of her when Jack and Ianto first brought her in."  
  
"As a matter of fact, the Captain even tried to protect me from her," Gwen replied for him, a warm smile spreading across her face as she continued to slowly chew on her sandwich.  
  
At the far end of the table, Jack suddenly grinned around his mouthful of bread. "And they say chivalry is dead," he chuckled, raising an eyebrow at the Captain, who felt his face grow strangely warm but refused to look away this time.  
  
"Got it the wrong way around, though, didn't you?" Owen chimed in. "There was a wild, ugly beast in the room … and there was Myfanwy."  
  
At this point, Gwen suddenly raised her hand and, without so much as batting an eyelid, slapped the rude medic on the back of his head, producing a loud smack. Interestingly, this didn't seem to disturb the man in the least. In fact, he was still giggling hysterically at his own joke like some naughty schoolkid, coughing and gasping as he choked on breadcrumbs and pieces of lettuce.  
  
"Next time, let me do it, Gwen," Ianto's voice came from just outside the door. He entered the room, another tray in hand, face inscrutable.  
  
"Coffee!" Gwen exclaimed. "Ianto, you're an angel."

As the young man proceeded to hand out the steaming mugs to everyone, the Captain looked up at him, trying to catch his eye but not succeeding. "Um, thanks … for the clothes and … everything," he tried to get his attention.  
  
Ianto just inclined his head slightly, though.

It looked like a little bow, and for a second, a ridiculous thought crossed the Captain's mind: he half-expected the boy to say something along the lines of, _'Will that be all, sir?'_ but the young Welshman remained silent. They hadn't exchanged a single word yet, the Captain realized. Not yesterday, not now.  
  
And it was strange to see how easily the man had slipped into his butler persona again. (Was this really the same caring person he had overheard comforting and consoling Jack last night? It was hard to believe.)

By now, the young man had moved around the table and was handing Owen one of the mugs.

"'Bout bloody time," the Captain could hear the medic mutter by way of thanks. "What took you so long?"

"Got held up at the tourist office when–"  
  
The Captain took a sip of his coffee and couldn't help sighing happily.

Realizing that he had just interrupted Ianto and that the entire room was, once again, staring at him, he quickly cleared his throat. "Coffee's really good … No wonder you have to fight off all those Martians with a stick."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ianto's mouth twitch upward almost imperceptibly.

  
"Ianto's coffee is the main reason we haven't all left screaming yet," Gwen smiled.  
  
"Yeah, I kinda figured that," the Captain replied. "This coffee can probably bring back the dead."

At the end of the table, Jack suddenly raised his head, and a tense silence descended upon the room.  
The Captain swallowed nervously again. Had he said something wrong?  
  
"Speaking of miracles," Jack cleared his throat quietly. "We've gotta get you settled in … I expect all of you to cooperate," he added, addressing his team.  
  
What good mood there had been officially evaporated at that.  
  
"I still don't get why the Yank's joining us," Owen grumbled.

"Not a Yank …" the Captain muttered under his breath, if only out of habit.  
  
There was a quiet sigh from where Jack was sitting. "And _that's_ why I said 'miracle' … Whatever happened to discipline, guys?"

"Speaking of things that aren't what they once used to be," Ianto suddenly chipped in. "Jack, I think we've fallen victim to an act of vandalism."

"What, _again?_ " Jack sighed. "Kids these days! Nothing but nonsense on their minds. What did they do this time?"

"I was upstairs, closing down the tourist office for lunch, when I heard a noise … Well, naturally, I open the door to check who's outside, and the next thing I know, I almost get sprayed in the face with a paint can … Somebody was merrily graffitiing our entrance door, Jack."

"What, in the middle of the day?" Jack exclaimed.

"Yep. Some guy. I tried to confront him, but he legged it. Couldn't even make out his face properly; he was wearing a hoodie."

"What's wrong with these kids today?" Jack complained. "Have they got nothing better to do with their time than destroy public property."

"They're not destroying anything, though," Gwen argued. "It's an art form, you know. My cousin–"

"Art form, my arse!" Owen snorted. "What did the silly bugger spray on our door, then? I bet it's something along the lines of, 'Katy Perry's got big BOOBS!'"

The Captain felt his eyebrows rise a good inch or so. "Back in my day, it was, 'God save the King!' and 'Hitler is a twerp.'"

"Welcome to the 21st century," Toshiko breathed.

Ianto shook his head. "It's neither obscene nor political. It's a picture, okay?"

"Yeah, 'cause pictures are _never_ obscene … _Ever!_ " Owen chuckled.

"It's a picture of a big skull. Spray-painted across the door," Ianto continued, ignoring the doctor's remark. "And it's got two crossed bones underneath it."

"What, like a pirate flag?" Jack laughed. "Like … like a Jolly Roger? _How cool is that!_ Can we keep it?" he pleaded, suddenly beaming at his secretary like a little boy, eyes sparkling, huge grin plastered across his face.

The Captain felt something warm grow in his chest at the sight, the corners of his mouth twitching involuntarily. But a quick glance at Ianto confirmed that Jack wouldn't get his way.

The young man's right eyebrow was arched in disdain, and he was staring at his boss as if the man had suddenly grown a second head. "Absolutely not," he said sternly.

"Aw!" For a second, there was quite an elaborate scowl on Jack's face, complete with pushed-out bottom lip and surly furrowed brow.

"I think it's creepy," Gwen suddenly announced into the silence that had fallen over the room. "I mean, who the hell draws skulls on people's doors? … It's just weird! It's almost like … like we were marked, you know. Like Death came to our door and painted that thing on it."

"Watching horror films with Rhys again?" Owen snorted.

"No, I mean it. Maybe one of us is marked for death now."

"Yeah? And which one of us would that be?" Owen asked sarcastically.

"If you don't shut it, it'll be you," Gwen growled, raising her hand again.

To which the doctor suddenly ducked his head and whined, "Jack! Jack! Violence in the workplace!"

Jack shot the two of them a look. "Kids."

There was a short pause.

"Well, that's settled, then," Ianto stated in a deadpan voice. "I'll paint over poor Yorick as soon as I have time."

"Alright," Jack sighed, defeated. "Back to our original topic. The Captain will fill a vacancy that–"

"We don't _have_ any vacancies, Jack," Gwen pointed out.  
  
"Yeah, we do," the man corrected her. "The Captain's gonna replace Ianto–"  
  
"What?! No bloody way, Jack!" Owen exclaimed, obviously barely restraining himself from leaping to his feet. For someone who allegedly hated Jack's secretary, he seemed quite enraged.  
  
"Not completely," Jack tried to placate the furious man. "Just in the field … I'm redefining Ianto's responsibilities within Torchwood."  
  
Gwen's eyes suddenly went round. "What? Why?"  
  
"Because Ianto asked me to. He wants to work indoors more often, which is what he was hired for in the first place," Jack explained.  
  
"Bollocks!" Owen spat. "We all know it's not about that. It's about his _better half_ being paranoid that he might get himself killed in the field. Honestly, what a girl! Too scared to–"

Jack shot the man a sharp look, raising his large hand. "Want another one, Owen?"  
  
The medic quickly ducked out of harm's way.  
  
"You didn't tell us you wouldn't be working in the field anymore, Ianto," Toshiko remarked.  
  
"Ianto's workload is enormous," Jack replied for the young man. "In fact, he works more than anyone else around this place."  
  
"Is that true?" Gwen asked, sheepishly looking at the Welshman.  
  
" _Yes!_ " Jack responded for him again; his voice had taken on a forceful tone now. "I'm sure it hasn't escaped your attention that he's not your maid around here. He practically runs this place. Originally, I hired him to man the desk at the tourist office. And what's he doing now? He cleans, cooks, waits on us hand and foot, sees to the Weevils and Myfanwy, looks after the vaults, the morgue and the armory. He handles the lion's share of the paperwork and does this being-on-the-phone-thing that we all hate so much. He keeps UNIT off our backs and makes sure that Whitehall throws enough money our way. The Royal family loves him. Plus, he's my personal assistant. And most importantly, he manages our archives _completely_ _on his own_."  
  
The Captain glanced over at Ianto in surprise, but the young man's face remained completely inscrutable, as if the topic of conversation were the weather on Snowdon or Welsh irregular verbs.  
  
"Being out in the field with us was never part of Ianto's job description," Jack added. "Besides, it'd be better to have two people holding the fort at the Hub. Tosh is usually very busy giving us directions and keeping an eye on all the monitors; she could definitely do with some help. So I thought, why not use this … uh … opportunity …" Jack jerked his head in the Captain's direction. "… and pull Ianto out of the field."  
  
The entire room had gone quiet. It obviously wasn't easy to argue with what Jack had said.

Gwen tried to, nonetheless. "But he's still a Rift victim." She threw the Captain an apologetic look. "Don't get me wrong, sweetheart, but you really shouldn't be dragged into all this. We should be trying to help you. Find you a flat, a _normal_ job somewhere, a nice Welsh girlfriend–"

"No," Jack interrupted her. "Think about the opportunity we'd miss, Gwen. None of us have had any military training … well, none of _you_ … He's a highly trained, combat-steeled fighter pilot. And you're telling me this is not an asset in our line of work? … I want all of you to cooperate, understood? We don't need another time traveler fiasco …" There was a hidden threat in the man's voice, the Captain realized.  
  
 _'What's happened here?'_ he wondered. _'And where do they get all these time travelers from, anyway?'_  
  
"Tosh, create a new identity for him," Jack continued. "You know … birth certificate, NI number, NHS number, bank account, a stack of fake ID cards covering all the Western countries – the whole nine yards. Create a fitting CV together with him."  
  
"You can do that?" the Captain heard himself ask in astonishment.  
  
"Even better," Toshiko smiled proudly. "I can hack into every database, falsify all the records and make it seem like you've always been here. I just need a few basic facts first so that I can work them into your new CV … Hang on …" She rummaged in her handbag for a moment. "Last night at home, I made a few quick notes–"  
  
"You really need a life, Tosh," Owen snorted.

"I looked at your file … _again_ ," Toshiko continued, ignoring the medic. "I'm sure by now we've all retrieved the thing at least once … erm … Here it is." She pulled out a stack of papers and put them on the table.

The Captain immediately recognized it as a copy of the file Jack had shown him on the spaceship, instantly feeling strangely off-kilter again.  
  
"Now, as it turns out, your date of birth is missing," Toshiko continued briskly, adjusting her glasses on her nose. "The archives weren't that well documented back then; these kind of things happened all the time. I will need to know your age so I can assign you a new birthday."  
  
"I'm 27," the Captain said with a smile.  
  
Was it only his imagination, or did Jack's back go rigid at that?  
  
"Oh," Toshiko gasped quietly.  
  
"It's the war," the Captain said, shrugging dismissively. "They say the things you see there … creep into your veins like a disease."  
  
"No, no, no, I … didn't mean it like that," Toshiko apologized hurriedly. "I just expected you to be closer to my age."

"She means she thought you'd be turning 33 in September as well," Owen clarified with a nasty grin, apparently trying to be as rude as possible today.

"Thank you very much, Owen," Toshiko hissed, trying to kill the doctor with her look. "I'm sure we _all_ needed to know that."

"You're really 27?" Gwen asked the Captain, an expression of pity on her face – pity and something akin to shock. As if she had just realized that all those grandads who had fought in the war had been young at the time. As if she had just understood what he had actually been doing only a few hours ago …

The Captain quickly dropped his gaze to the table again. "I'm turnin' 28 next month … Well, would have … if … I mean …" He made a vague gesture with his hand, drawing a deep breath, still overly aware of the silent stares that were directed at him. "I was born on February 2nd, 1913."

 _'The day on which the candles are blessed,'_ his mother had used to say. (Of course, Amos from across the road had always called it, _'The day your father smoked forty cigarettes outside my house,'_ never forgetting to tell the story of how little Jack's mother had gone into labor so suddenly that they had all forgotten to take down their meager Christmas decorations.)  
  
Toshiko was quickly scribbling away on the first page of his file. "Sorry, I just didn't expect a pilot to be that young," she mumbled.  
  
"Oh, actually, I was one of the oldest guys in–" the Captain began quietly, only to be interrupted by Gwen exclaiming, "Hey, isn't that Groundhog Day on your side of the pond?"

At the edge of his vision, the Captain could see Jack shake his head with a bewildered smile. "What day now? You people and your crazy ideas …"

A strangely weightless feeling started to spread throughout the Captain's body as he stared at the other man. It almost felt as if he were aboard that spaceship again, floating above the ocean and the rocks and the beaches … Something was wrong; something was very wrong with what Jack had just said …

It was at that moment that Gwen suddenly exclaimed, "We're all missing the point. Forget the birthday. His name! What about his name, Jack?!"  
  
Another short silence followed as everyone turned to look at the man at the end of the table.  
  
Jack had dropped his gaze to the polished tabletop, tapping his forefinger against his bottom lip in thought. "Unfortunately, I can't give you back your name," he finally announced in a soft voice, raising his pensive eyes to the Captain and ignoring Gwen's protesting gasp. "People know me by this name here. It's practically become synonymous with Torchwood. Keeping it is not only in _my_ interest. If we were to suddenly swap names, this would just draw unnecessary attention to you, to us, to Torchwood as a whole. And we can't have that. I'm sorry."  
  
"Jack, you're unbelievable! Instead of coming clean and ending this madness once and for all …" Gwen just shook her head.  
  
The Captain and Jack still had their gazes locked on each other and … Was that guilt in the man's eyes? An indigo shadow clouding his astute gaze for the fraction of a second? As though a cool breeze had briefly curled the surface of the ocean, sweeping a cloud across the sun and creating a stormy reflection in the water, the specter of shame, of fear, of lonely despair, begging for an absolution which the Captain had no power to grant …

"When we were in 1941," Toshiko suddenly threw in, instantly capturing everyone's attention, "you gave a false name, Jack. Remember?" This drew curious stares from the others at the table. "'James Harper.' Why don't we just stick with this one and give it to the Captain? It's the easiest solution I can think of right now … 'James Harper', how does that sound to you, Captain?"  
  
Whatever doubt there had been on Jack's mind seemed to dissolve now, leaving behind only firm resolve in those steely blue eyes. "Even Witness Protection lets people keep their first names these days. This way, they're easier to remember. Besides, having two Jacks working in the same workplace is not unheard-of."

"Okay. _Jack_ Harper, then," Toshiko said. "What do you think, Captain?"

"I … don't care," the Captain replied slowly, realizing that it was true. 'Harper' sounded alright. Why not?  
  
"Jack Harper … going once, going twice … _and_ … sold to the gentleman in the Brioni suit," Jack announced with a grin.  
  
But before the Captain could so much as open his mouth to form a reply, Owen had already declared, "Welcome to the happy Harper family!" And the Captain could have sworn that beneath the sarcasm, there had been a hint of genuine good-naturedness, and even pride, in the doctor's voice.

"Owen!" Jack exclaimed as if he had just remembered the man's name. "You'll be responsible for our new team member's health. Give him the usual check-up and update his vaccinations … Ianto!" Jack turned to the young Welshman. "How's the search for that flat coming along?"

 _'So, they're looking for an apartment for me already?'_ the Captain realized.

Ianto cleared his throat. "I have narrowed it down to three flats–"  
  
"Narrowed it down?" Owen blurted out in disbelief. "When did you even start? He hasn't been here for more than a day yet."  
  
"Some people are physically capable of getting up earlier than eleven," Ianto deadpanned, which earned him a muttered, "Wanker!" from the other man.  
  
"Good job, Ianto," Jack nodded. "You're in charge of all the practical stuff. Landlords, keys, his Torchwood contract, and so forth … Well, then," he said in conclusion, "it looks like we're settled."  
  
"Er … what about me?" Gwen asked, timidly raising her hand.  
  
"You can teach the Captain how to wreck the wing mirror on the car while reversing out of a parking space," Owen muttered darkly.  
  
"And _you_ can teach him how to get shot by a colleague for not obeying Jack's rules," Gwen snapped back.  
  
"At least I'm not the one who can't shoot for shit, PC Cooper."  
  
Jack interrupted them quickly. "Kids, kids, no fighting, please."  
  
By now, there was no one in the room whom the snarky doctor hadn't insulted within the past hour, the Captain realized. But what had Toshiko said yesterday? _'This is just the way they work.'_

"Jack, I can give Debbie a ring if you want," Gwen suggested.  
  
Her boss looked puzzled for a second. "Debbie?"  
  
"Emma-Louise Cowell," Toshiko said. "We assigned her the name 'Deborah Morrison', remember?"  
  
Gwen nodded. "I thought I could ask her if she could come over from London." She gave the Captain a warm smile. "Debbie fell through time. Just like you. I thought it might be nice for you to talk to somebody who has been through the same thing … She's from the fifties. I know that's different … but still … She's sort of become our poster girl because she has adapted so well to her new environment," she added proudly.  
  
"But …" The Captain could feel his eyebrows rise of their own volition. "… if she's the poster girl, then there must have been others … What happened to them? And how come there are people falling through time, anyway?"  
  
"There is a Rift in time and space that runs through Cardiff," Toshiko explained. "People from other times and worlds get washed through it … And not just people: weaponry, dangerous equipment, rubbish … all sorts of things."  
  
All of this was said in a slightly absent-minded tone, as if she were reciting it from a textbook. _'Just like Tim,'_ it flashed through the Captain's mind. "Are you sayin' that people end up here … against their will?"  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jack and Ianto exchange a meaningful look.  
  
Toshiko nodded. "Yes. What happened to you happens all the time. Only, unlike you, most people get really upset about being trapped here. The Rift doesn't usually save lives like in your case. Take Myfanwy for example; the poor dinosaur–"

"Your Cerberus up there is a _dinosaur?!_ " the Captain blurted out, realization suddenly hitting him. Well, of course, that's what this thing was. _'God!'  
  
_ Toshiko nodded again.

They were all staring at him now, as if expecting him to pass out again.

"That's what we do," Gwen explained gently. "We collect the things that come through the Rift. We sort through the rubbish, help people who are lost, fight off attackers, and cover things up. Hasn't Jack told you that?"  
  
The Captain felt the flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks for a moment. "I guess he … did, yeah. Somethin' like that …" He faltered, trying to catch Jack's gaze, but the man refused to meet his eyes.

It was unnerving, the way they all kept tiptoeing around him. (The fact that Jack was giving him the silent treatment didn't exactly help either.) He wasn't made of porcelain, for Christ's sake. Dinosaur or not, he wouldn't break if they told him a few hard truths about the world he had entered.

He sat up straighter and cleared his throat, not wanting to give them the impression that he couldn't handle this. "So, is a Weevil some kinda mammoth, then?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

That broke the tension, and they all burst out laughing, apparently not having suspected that he would take the topic so lightly.

Even Jack seemed to be stifling a hiccupping sound, shoulders silently shaking with laughter. "If that were the case, getting them into the car would be a fun exercise," he said finally, grin threatening to split his face. "Speaking of prehistoric monsters, you've gotta lot of catching up to do, Captain … Kids, hit him with some history! I don't care who covers which topic. Just make sure he knows his way around the 20th century … Right … Owen, you can take him to the medical bay now. Permission to use him as a pincushion."

The doctor stretched and yawned lazily.

"A little more enthusiasm, please," Jack ordered, raising his voice. "Once you're done with him, you can go home for the weekend."

In a split second, the medic was out of his chair, greedily grabbing yet another sandwich on his way out.

As the Captain stood up to follow the man, a subdued voice caught his ear: Ianto was quietly talking to his boss again. "UNIT will send one Martha Jones to help us out with the Copley case. They said you'd know her. And Jack … the Élysée Palace is driving me crazy. Just ring them back already. Oh, and Moscow phoned about the conference. And don't forget you have a phone call with Her Majesty scheduled for four o'clock."  
  
 _'Her?'_ the Captain wondered.

"Oi, don't just stand there. Move!" Owen called out over his shoulder. "Give the girls some space to gossip about you." He was watching the Captain impatiently from the doorway, beady black eyes glinting in his sunken face. "Come on, James Bond. Doctor No has got a needle for you."

* * *

 


	9. First shocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, I would like to add "depiction of terminal illness" to the warnings above. (It is brief and rather vague, though.)

**9\. Chapter: First shocks** Soundtrack: Katie Melua "Shy Boy"

"Alright, let's take a look at that herniated disk of yours."  
  
The Captain was sitting on the exam table, shivering slightly with his shirt off, cold air hitting his bare torso. Behind him, Owen had grabbed the … what was that thing called again? scanner? … off the desk and was sliding it up and down his spine now.

The metal underside of the thing felt unpleasantly cool against the Captain's skin, but Owen didn't seem to notice it. Apparently, making patients feel comfortable wasn't exactly the doctor's strong suit.

Currently, the man was muttering to himself distractedly, squinted eyes never leaving the display of his strange little machine.

"… mm-hm … Doesn't look too bad … mm-hm … Listen, Captain," he announced finally. "Of course, back surgery is always an option. But in my opinion, it should only be done as a last resort. I think, in your case, conservative treatment should do. Exercise of the lower back. Maybe swimming." The man's loud Cockney accent was echoing off the tiled walls in the medical bay. "As I said yesterday, your back will bother you every now and then … You'll probably have this for the rest of your life, which isn't going to be a terribly long time if you join Torchwood."

"That bad, huh?" the Captain asked with an upward quirk of his lips.

But Owen ignored his remark, still staring at the scanning device in his hand.

"So, is this where you dissect little green men?" the Captain tried to engage the other man in conversation again.

"I dissect them. Tosh studies them. Jack shags them. Gwen tries to reason with them. And Ianto doesn't care," the doctor muttered absent-mindedly.

"Jack sha–?"

Owen looked up from the display with a smirk on his face. "See what I just did there? That was science in action, mate. People will always react to any mention of sex. Scientifically proven fact. I could have added all sorts of other things to that sentence without you even noticing. Because you were so distracted by the sex bit … Newspapers use it all the time. They bait you with a bare-breasted woman on the front page, and before you even know it, you're reading something boring about politics on page four."

"Bare-breasted women on the front page?" the Captain gasped.

Owen grinned, the black slits of his eyes glittering like two death-watch beetles. "Now, don't you just _love_ the fact that you ended up here of all places?" And then the man trailed off into muttering once again, leaving the Captain to wonder if all of this had been a particularly tasteless joke.

Meanwhile, Owen had pressed his detector device against the Captain's shivering skin again. "… antibodies … mm-hm … vaccination status … That's good … You've had your tetanus shot recently, that right?"  
  
The Captain nodded silently. They had all gotten the shot before they had even seen their first German up close.  
  
Apparently, Owen had all the information he needed now, for the next thing the Captain knew, the scanner was carelessly flung onto the cluttered desk, where it landed on top of a messy stack of folders with a loud thud. "We keep blood samples of all Torchwood employees on hand. I'll need yours. Er … Alright, blood first, shots later … Extend your arm and make a fist."

A few moments later, the doctor was already labeling the fresh blood sample he had just drawn from the Captain's arm.

 _'Harper, Jack. 19/07/2008,'_ the Captain read with squinted eyes while applying a strip of band-aid to his hurting arm. (This time, the box of sticking plasters Owen had distractedly thrown at him had hit the Captain square in the face.)  
  
Stepping over to him again, Owen gestured at the Captain with his next syringe. "This thing here combines half of the vaccines you'll need. It's our Torchwood special. Normally, it'd take you about twelve months to get all these different shots," he announced proudly, jabbing the Captain none-too-gently with the needle. "One now and another one in about 36 hours, and you're protected against almost every nasty virus on this planet and a few alien ones as well. My own special recipe."  
  
Once he was done, the scrawny doctor put the syringe down and started taking off his dirty lab coat, obviously getting ready to leave for the weekend. The black t-shirt he was wearing underneath featured a picture of a hand clutching something and an inscription.

 _'American Idiot,'_ the Captain read, wondering if this was Owen's way of commenting on the newest addition to their team.

He had just applied a second strip of band-aid to his arm and was about to put his shirt back on when suddenly a shrill alarm went off, resonating throughout the entire Hub.

"Scramble siren?" he asked, quirking one eyebrow, but he didn't get a reply from Owen.

Instead, the man had started cursing quietly under his breath. "Oh, bugger … Houston, we have a problem!"  
  
But what he meant by that cryptic remark and whether 'Houston' was the latest in the long list of nicknames the doctor had already come up with for the Captain was never explained because, at that moment, Toshiko's voice rang out from the depths of the Hub. "Weevil alarm! Weevil alarm, everyone!"

"And this on a Saturday!" the medic muttered in irritation. "Have these Weevils no respect for British labor laws at all?"  
  
A moment later, Jack's head popped up over the railing above them. "Owen, change of plans. We're going Weevil hunting," the man called out cheerfully. Then his gaze seemed to fall on Owen's bare-chested patient and … linger there for a heart-stopping second.

There was even more nervousness in the man's eyes now than before, and it made something in the Captain's stomach flip, abdominal muscles fluttering slightly as if from the cool air. Being stared at while naked to the waist wasn't exactly something he was used to.

He started to blindly fish for his shirt behind himself on the exam table, finally locating the thing and throwing it on, arms getting caught in the sleeves and buttons slipping away from under his nervous fingers as he tried to quickly button it up over his naked chest.  
  
Meanwhile, Owen seemed to have come to the conclusion that there was an easy way to avoid work and get away with it. "I'm with a patient, Jack," he muttered, not meeting his boss's eyes. There was a carefully schooled expression of boredom on his face.  
  
At that, Jack's gaze finally left the Captain and shifted over to the doctor. "You were about to leave," he disagreed, pointing at the desk where Owen's crumpled lab coat had somehow ended up on top of the big monitor.  
  
"Great. There goes my Saturday," the medic huffed in reply, turning away and retrieving his leather jacket from behind the desk.  
  
Jack's inquisitive eyes locked with the Captain's again, and for a short, breathless moment, it felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. As though the two of them were alone in this strange white morgue, in this tiled underground cathedral. As though the entire universe outside were revolving around them, around the eye of the storm, around this fulcrum of stillness in time and space that they had become.

And for some reason, it seemed as if Jack's warm, shining eyes were the most important thing in the world right now. There was a silent question in them that the Captain could read without difficulty, _'Are you alright?'_ And the wave of raw, unguarded tenderness directed at him in that one open, almost vulnerable look was as surprising as it was overwhelming.

It was the most he had seen of this mysterious man's deep soul since that moment on the spaceship, the Captain realized. What else was hidden there? Deep under those strong layers of toughness and responsibility and leadership and seemingly unwavering confidence … What secrets? What darkness? What terrors?

Jack's casual stance, the way he was leaning lightly against the railing – forearms perched on the top bar, one foot on the bottom one, large hands clasped together, broad shoulders slightly askew – the way his eyes were sparkling and his brown hair was falling slightly over his forehead, the way that wistful smile was playing at the corners of those finely shaped lips … all of this made the Captain's heart speed up and beat furiously against his ribcage.  
  
"Ready. Let's go," Owen shouted and stormed up the stairs.

Oh, right! Owen was there as well, the Captain suddenly realized, shaking himself out of his daydream.

"What's up with those bloody Weevils, anyway?" he could hear the doctor complain. "Two days in a row. Have they gone mental?"  
  
Jack had already turned to his medic. "No idea. Maybe it's just that time of the month … Come on. Gwen and Ianto are probably already waiting in the SUV … Oh, and Captain … Tosh will look after you while we're gone," he called back over his shoulder.  
  
Then the Captain could hear the sound of their feet on the concrete floor as they hurried out of the Hub and Owen sneering, "Tosh, your turn to babysit James Bond! You've got a license to kill, well, bore him to death with your computer stuff."  
  
The Captain just shook his head in bewilderment. Looking down himself, he realized that two of his shirt buttons had somehow found their way into the wrong holes over the past few minutes.

  
  
ΨΨΨ

  
"Can I ask you something, Miss Sato?" the Captain inquired, entering the main atrium of the Hub. "Who is James Bond? Another Torchwood employee?"  
  
The petite woman looked up from where she was sitting behind her strange screen. "Well, that would be great. But no," she replied, a surprised laugh bursting from her lips. "He isn't even real; he's a fictional character. We will have to show you a Bond film sometime … You can call me Tosh, by the way. Like everyone else." She glanced at him over the rim of her glasses, friendly smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Come on, sit down. We can take a look at your new CV together."  
  
The Captain pulled out a chair for himself and sat down beside her. The strange monitor was showing a large map of the city, small streets and big roads intersecting one another and forming a complex black-and-white grid, a tiny red dot racing along one of its straight lines.  
  
"Is this some kinda … radar?" he asked, gazing at the thing in amazement.  
  
"Something like that. I can track the SUV with it, keep my eyes on the team while they're out in the field. Sometimes there's lots of work, but it doesn't look like it today."  
  
The Captain followed the dot with his eyes as it crossed the screen, speeding toward its destination.  
  
"Captain?" Toshiko said softly. "I know all of this can't be easy for you … and it's probably only a small comfort, but I can look up your family for you if you want." She touched his elbow tentatively. "I can get into every archive from here. We've done it before … For other time travelers, I mean. So, if you want me to look up your mother, for example–"  
  
"She's dead," the Captain interrupted her quietly.  
  
Toshiko shook her head quickly. "Oh, no, no, not necessarily. I mean, it's not very likely that she's still alive, but don't give up hope so fast. Sometimes we do find people who are really old. I can't promise anything but–"  
  
"She passed away in December 1929," he clarified quietly.  
  
"Oh … I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't be. It was a long time ago," he replied, realizing, in the back of his mind, how very true that was now that he was here.  
  
When he closed his eyes, though, he could still hear the sound of his mother's dry, papery coughs reverberating in their dingy little kitchen. Eighteen months of stifled coughs and increasingly severe chest pain, that she had tried to hide from her son by leaning over her old sewing machine and putting on a brave smile. He could still see the old doctor's worried face and remember the way the man's expression had turned more and more serious with each time he had come by. His mother had told him that the doctor was just worried he wasn't going to get paid, but somewhere deep down, he had known it wasn't true. The coughing up of blood, her secret tears when she had thought he wasn't looking, the whistling sound in her lungs that he had started to hear through the wall at night, it had all spoken volumes of what was going on.

The last few weeks had been the worst; the agonizing sound of her violent coughing had followed him everywhere in the small house. Later, much later, he would sometimes think that he had just joined up to escape the memory of hearing her suffocate like this, the powerful roar of his plane's engine a salvation drowning out the sound of those coughs that had haunted his mind for years.

"You alright?" Toshiko asked, snapping him out of his memories.  
  
"Uh … yes."  
  
"What about your father?" she inquired cautiously. "Do you want me to look him up?"  
  
"Never knew him. He died six months after I was born. Fell off the roof of a barn he was fixin'."

Amos, good old Amos from across the road, had later told him how his father had lain there on the ground, face-down, arms outstreched, body forming a cross, half-majestic and half-eerie and very, very quiet. _'Gravity killed 'im dead, son,'_ Amos had always used to say.  
  
Toshiko lightly touched the Captain's forearm with her small white hand. "I am so sorry."  
  
He smiled down at her, taller even while seated. "Don't worry."

"So, there's no one?" she asked. "No siblings, no cousins?"

He shook his head. _'That's what made the decision to come here easy,'_ he thought.  
  
"Well, if you ever think of anyone …" She faltered, giving him a meaningful look. "A distant relation. Or … a friend. Or one of your men," she suggested quietly, then smiled an awkward smile. "Or … your girlfriend … or … well, anyone …"  
  
The Captain swallowed, thinking of small, sharp eyes and a missing thumb. "I'll tell you when I'm ready."

A tense silence ensued. The tiny red dot on the screen was the only thing in the room still moving.  
  
"Yes, Jack?" Toshiko's back had suddenly gone rigid, one hand flying up to her ear. "About five hundred meters … Do you know the old industrial estate up the road? … yes … Yes, cyclist saw them … Yes." She touched her ear again and turned back to look at the astonished Captain.  
  
"Earpiece," she explained, pulling the black curtain of her hair aside to reveal a tiny device in the shell of her ear.  
  
"Gee whiz!" the Captain murmured.  
  
"Hang on, I can put them on speakerphone." She pressed a few keys on her keyboard, and the words _'Connection established'_ flashed up on the screen. Then she extended her hand and switched on the dusty little speaker sitting on her desk. "Hey! Everyone, say hi to the Captain," she chanted, smiling her shy little smile at him.  
  
A loud, happy cheer erupted from the speaker.  
  
"You two havin' fun working on the CV?" Jack's voice wanted to know.  
  
"We're working like crazy," Toshiko replied, giving the Captain a sneaky little wink.  
  
"They're probably just sitting around playing cards while we're working our arses off here," Owen's sullen voice complained.

"Jack, I've just had an idea," Toshiko threw in before the Captain could even respond. "Wouldn't it be best to keep the Captain's CV as close to the truth as possible? How about: he's a pilot recently wounded in Afghanistan or something?"

"Good idea," Jack replied. "Let's just say he flew for a contractor in Afghanistan. I know a couple of people who owe me a few favors … That's what they are today, Captain," he added quietly. "Wars, I mean. They're contractors' wars."

"What, there's a war in Afghanistan _again?_ " the Captain asked.

To his left, he could see Toshiko shake her black mop of hair. "Technically, that should be 'again _and then_ again'."

"They sidin' with the Germans or something?" he heard himself ask in bewilderment.

"It's … complicated," Jack's voice said through the speaker. "Even wars aren't what they once used to be." Then he cleared his throat, obviously addressing the team now. "As I said, kids, our new brother-in-arms needs a few history lessons pronto … Owen, don't make that face. You're contributing to this like everyone else, understood? … Tosh, we're there. Have to go," he added, and then the words on the screen changed to _'Connection severed'_.

The Captain looked over at Toshiko again. "So, are they gonna chase after those things now, those Weevils? Shouldn't I be out there with them?" he asked. He wasn't used to feeling useless, and he hated it already.

"Oh, you'll get to see your first Weevil soon enough. Trust me, they're not that fascinating."

"But they come through this … this Rift. Like those other monsters and time travelers and dinosaurs, right?"

"Yes."

"Can I ask you something? … Spaceships. Do they fall through the Rift too?" he asked, holding his breath while waiting for her answer.

"Sure." Toshiko smiled at him in a carefree, unperturbed way, as if what he had just asked were the most normal thing in the world. "All the time. Sometimes they're armed to the teeth and want to destroy the earth. Sometimes it's just a group of alien teenagers on a drinking binge, celebrating their intergalactic GCSEs."

"O-okay."

"Oh, don't worry," she laughed. "No spaceship is going to slip under our radar. That's what the Rift monitor is there for … Let's start with your CV." She gave the Captain an encouraging look and pressed some button on her keyboard, causing a second window to pop up on the screen.

 _'Jack Harper, date of birth: XX/XX/1980,'_ the Captain read.  
  
"You'll have to learn this by heart over the next few days … But first of all, when would you like to have your birthday?"  
  
"Uh … don't know. In the summer?" he suggested, shrugging his shoulders.  
  
"How about the 25th of August? Does that sound alright?"

"Sure, why not."

Toshiko was quickly typing away on her keyboard. "Then, next question–"  
  
"I wasn't born in Houston," he interrupted her, pointing at the monitor. "That was a mistake in my file. The girl probably typed it like that because I gave it as my last place of residence. I'm actually a country boy. Only ended up in Houston 'cause fate threw me there."  
  
"You probably just confused the poor thing with that charming accent of yours," Toshiko murmured with a bashful smile, eyes suddenly very focused on the screen.

He coughed. "It's not even that bad …" he muttered. "You should hear me when I'm drunk."

From the corner of his eye, he could see her lips twitch, hiding a smile. "Sounds like a plan. Team night out, getting the rookie drunk to hear his drawl."

"You callin' me rookie?"

"It's that or Groupie," she teased, a delicate blush dusting her cheeks.

"Oh, you are a devil."

"Tosh? _Tosh!_ Why the hell is your comm turned off?" Owen's urgent voice suddenly pulled them out of their banter. The screen was flashing the words _'Connection established'_ once again.  
  
"I can hear you, Owen. I've just switched my earpiece off because I put you on speakerph–"  
  
"No time to listen to you waffle on all day," Owen cut in rudely. "How many Weevils did the cyclist say he saw?"  
  
"Two. He said he saw two tall figures outside the building–"  
  
"Thanks, I think I know what a Weevil looks like," the doctor snapped at her again.  
  
"Owen, is everything alright?" Toshiko's voice had taken on a worried tone.  
  
"We've killed the two buggers. They were extremely aggressive. Same as yesterday. Don't know what's got their knickers in a twist all of a sudden … Anyway, Gwen and Ianto are carrying the bodies to the SUV at the moment. But Jack insists he can still hear sounds drifting out of–  Shit! Jack!" Owen shouted suddenly, his voice cracking with panic. "Jack! Behind you! There's a third o–"  
  
But whatever Owen said was drowned out by a horrifying, bloodcurdling scream, that caused the speaker to shake on the desk, and a couple of gunshots, that followed shortly thereafter, echoing loudly in the Hub.  
  
The Captain leaped to his feet, heart slamming into his chest like a fist. "That's Jack. Jesus! That was Jack's voice!" he exclaimed, wild panic coursing throughout his entire body.  
  
"Tosh, it's Jack," Owen's voice announced solemnly over the speaker. "He is–"  
  
But whatever the man had wanted to say was cut off when Toshiko switched the speaker off with one swift movement of her hand. Then she tapped her earpiece again. "Owen? I'm here … What happened? … Yes …"  
  
"We've gotta help Jack. Is he–? Please ask him if Jack is alright?" the Captain tried to get her attention, not understanding how she could stay so collected when his heart was practically beating out of his chest and he could feel sweat forming on his brow.  
  
"Yes … yes … You shot it? … Good … Just go find Ianto, okay? You know how Jack hates it when the first thing he sees upon coming to is _your_ face … yes … yes … Just go get Ianto; he always knows what to do …" Her end of the conversation sounded calm and careless like some casual chitchat over a cup of tea.  
  
"Please, Toshiko. What's going on?" the Captain tried again, noticing how hoarse his voice sounded.  
  
She clicked off her earpiece and looked up at him, a too-bright, slightly forced, smile on her face. "Everything's _fine_."  
  
"Is Jack alright?"  
  
" _Of course_ , he is. Takes more than a Weevil to take out our Jack."  
  
The Captain didn't know what a Weevil was, but he did know that the scream he had heard had been hair-raising.  
  
"Really. Don't worry. Owen's a good doctor; he knows what he's doing," Toshiko reassured him with a smile. "Come on, I'll take your photo."  
  
"What? What for?" he asked in confusion, still reeling from what he had just heard over the speaker.  
  
"For your new passport … _Smile_." She had snatched up a tiny silver camera from the desk, and for a second, he was blinded by a bright flash of blue light where he was still standing beside his chair.  
  
"Uh … Don't we need a white background for the photograph? I mean, there are rusty old stairs behind me." He jerked his thumb in the direction of Jack's office.  
  
"Oh, don't worry. We can switch backgrounds afterwards."  
  
"How?" he asked, even more confused now.  
  
Instead of responding, she just pressed a button, and his picture appeared on the screen.  
  
He gaped at it. "Okay, that was impressive."  
  
The petite, bespectacled woman beamed up at him. "Now look …" Her fingers started flying over the keyboard at an amazing speed, and the background of the photograph changed to white, then black, then bottle-green, and then … a whole lot of eagle badges started to pop up all over the screen, complete with crown and _'Let us to the battle'_ inscription.  
  
He laughed in quiet surprise.

Another flash went off.

Apparently, the sneaky girl had taken advantage of the moment to snap another picture of him.  
  
"You look friendlier in this one," she grinned, pulling the image up on the screen as well. "Shame we can't use that green background for your passport; it really brings out your eyes."  
  
They took a few more pictures, Toshiko asking him to turn his head like this or look straight into the camera like that. Apparently, he managed to get it wrong every single time, sheepish grin slowly spreading across his face as she started to fuss. "… and there's a crease in your collar. Let me straighten that for you … Here you go … Now, straight into the camera … No, no, no, what happened to your hair?!"  
  
They both ended up laughing.  
  
Then he snapped a few pictures of her, careful not to drop the small camera when she showed him which buttons to push. (The thing was so tiny that even his slender hands looked big wrapped around it.)  
  
"And now, one of the two of us together. Come on, just for fun," she insisted, a trace of insecurity in her voice and in the way her cheeks flushed prettily at his doubtful look.  
  
She quickly got up and placed the camera on one of the stairs, setting the auto-timer and rushing back to his side to get into the frame.  
  
It was strange, the way this delicate little woman felt leaning against him. He noticed how very small she was when the side of her head connected slightly with his bicep, frail shoulder bumping into him, jasmine perfume wafting up to his nose. It was a pleasant, unobtrusive scent, and yet it left him feeling vaguely uncomfortable.  
  
It was the same awkward feeling he had gotten whenever Nancy had smiled at him. This strange realization that she was flirting with him and that he had no idea how to react. An uneasy feeling of emptiness whenever he had put his arms around her graceful waist on the dance floor. Like a man who was absolutely famished and had been handed a beautiful flower instead of food. Yes, it was a fair little thing. But what the hell was he supposed to do with it?  
  
 _'Probably just too shy. Never been much of a womanizer,'_ he thought, smiling to himself. The camera flashed brightly, capturing the moment on film.  
  
After that, he relaxed a bit, catching on to Toshiko's playful mood, and they started snapping one picture after another, striking ridiculous poses and laughing. The monitor later revealed that, in one of them, she had held up 'rabbit ears' behind his head without him even noticing. He laughed, realizing that he had obviously underestimated this quiet, well-mannered person's mischievous ways.

Watching her skim through the pictures and play around with their background colors, he had completely lost track of time when suddenly the alarm went off, indicating that the cog door had started to roll open once again.  
  
The other four Torchwood members walked in, and the Captain released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.  
  
Ianto had a cut across his cheekbone, that looked like a cat scratch, and it was just astounding how much Owen was fussing over him, considering that they were allegedly arch-enemies. Even after the doctor had dragged the young man into the medical bay, his concerned voice and Ianto's meek protests kept resounding throughout the Hub.  
  
"Three Weevils. And in the middle of the day at that. Would you believe it, Tosh?!" Gwen exclaimed, stepping over to Toshiko's workstation, where the Captain was still sitting beside the Japanese girl.  
  
"And Gwen almost bloody shot me," Owen cried out from the medical bay. "She should really spend more time on the shooting range, Jack!"  
  
When there was no answer, the Captain looked over to Jack.  
  
It was clear, at first glance, that the leader of Torchwood Three was not in a good mood anymore; his demeanor had shifted from upbeat cheerfulness to one of tightly wound tension, and his face had turned pale under the tan, an almost tangible tiredness around his eyes now.  
  
"What a nice picture of the two of you!" Gwen exclaimed, pointing at the forgotten screen in front of the Captain and Toshiko. "Can I have a copy? I'd just love to show Rhys what our new teammate looks like."  
  
Jack made his way over to them. "So, what did you get up to while you had the place to yourselves?" he asked, sounding a bit weary.  
  
The Captain noticed that Jack's greatcoat was now buttoned up to his throat and that the man was flinching away from the bluish light of the monitor almost imperceptibly – like someone with a throbbing headache.  
  
"What's _this?_ " Jack inquired curtly, casting a glance at the picture on the screen, his voice going from exhausted to keenly alert in the matter of a second.  
  
"Just a bit of fun, Jack," Toshiko replied, an apologetic tone in her voice. "I took the Captain's picture for the documents, and we got bored … Are you alright?"  
  
"Never been better!" Jack bit out sharply. Something was flashing in his eyes, some hidden emotion that the Captain couldn't read … As if the photographs were irritating him for some mysterious reason.  
  
"Oh, look at this one! It's lovely, the way you've put your arm around Tosh's shoulder," Gwen's enthusiastic voice rang out behind them.  
  
There was a visible flinch in Jack's stance. "No need to scream, Gwen. We can hear you just fine."  
  
The Captain looked up at Jack, who was now standing beside his chair. The man had a sickly look to his eyes like someone with a severe migraine coming on. But there was something else as well, some deeper, darker emotion, something intense flickering in his frown … And at that moment, realization hit the Captain like a punch to the gut. _'Jealousy_. _Jack's_ _jealous!'  
  
_ Their conversation at the Ritz came back to him. He had asked Jack if Toshiko was his woman, and Jack's bitter voice had replied, _'No. There's no one.'  
  
'Well, maybe it wasn't true,' _ the Captain pondered. _'Maybe he lied. Maybe he is with Toshiko, after all_. _Or maybe he didn't lie, and she wasn't his girl back then, but now she is.'_ Lots of things could have changed in the months that had passed for Jack, the Captain realized with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. _'Or maybe she isn't his girl, but he would like her to be, and she just doesn't know it yet_ … _'_ Whichever way he looked at it, the pictures had to look very inappropriate and downright hurtful to Jack.

 _'God, and I just threw myself at him at the Ritz,'_ the Captain thought, an unnamable feeling of guilt and shame and desperation descending upon him. _'He was probably just trying to be nice and I_ … _I kept insisting on– God!'_ He didn't even care anymore that what he had done was wrong. (He was probably going to hell in a handbasket, anyway. In fact, maybe this place here was Hell already.) But the idea of how he had most likely forced Jack to do something that the man hadn't wanted to do seemed deeply troubling to him.

And yet he couldn't suppress this confusing hunger he was feeling inside himself. This pent-up aggression that he couldn't take out on anything now that he was trapped in this bunker and couldn't sweat and curse and turn enemy planes into fireballs. It was building up inside of him like a black thunderstorm on the horizon. And he had no idea how to turn around …  
  
It didn't exactly help that Toshiko chose that moment to happily pull up the next picture, which turned out to be one in which the Captain had, yet again, put his arm around her shoulder. (God, where were the 'rabbit ears' when you needed them?)  
  
Jack shot her a withering look. "Had a blast, didn't you?" Irritation was clearly evident in his voice now. "Let's see …" He reached over her shoulder to press a key on the keyboard, leaning toward the Captain for a second.  
  
And that was when the Captain saw it: the swift movement had caused the wide collar of the greatcoat to slide to the side a few inches, revealing, for a fraction of a second, a glimpse of a shirt completely drenched in blood.  
  
The Captain reeled back in his chair, letting out a silent gasp. Had he seen right?

The girls' eyes were still firmly fixed on the screen in front of them; they couldn't have seen anything.

But there had been blood. Definitely. An abundance of angry crimson on Jack's shirt. How the man could even stand upright was a mystery.  
  
"Phone call from the Queen in about five minutes, Jack," Ianto's voice suddenly rang out behind them.  
  
"Right …" Jack shot Toshiko one last look of warning, straightened up and disappeared into his office.  


* * *

 


	10. More questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to point to the warnings above once again. There is some violent imagery in this chapter.

**10\. Chapter: More questions**

  
The Captain spent the remainder of the afternoon working on his fake CV with Toshiko.

It proved to be more difficult than he would have thought, what with him having no idea about this war in Afghanistan, let alone modern fighter aircraft. He was glad she was doing the actual work for him, typing, looking things up, asking him questions every once in a while and correcting a couple of the paragraphs she had written the previous night at home. _'Good thing she doesn't seem in any particular hurry to get home for the weekend,'_ he thought. _'Or maybe_ … _maybe it isn't a good thing at all. Maybe she's just staying late because of Jack,'_ a nagging voice inside of him whispered.  
  
Owen, for his part, seemed to have a slightly different idea of what a perfect weekend should entail and quickly made to leave, hollering, "Get a life, Tosh! Saturdays are for fun … Well, if you absolutely _want_ to spend your time off entertaining Casablanca boy, I won't stop you … Everyone, don't expect me back before Monday morning … er … make that noon."

When the cog door had closed behind the medic, the Captain asked Toshiko whether his newest nickname had anything to do with the fictional character she had mentioned earlier.  
  
"James Bond? Oh, no, no, no … Owen was referring to another film," she replied.  
  
At that moment, Gwen re-emerged from the kitchen, coffee cup in hand and eyes wide with confusion. "Why don't you know _'Casablanca'_? You're from World War II, aren't you?"  
  
"Released in 1942," Toshiko muttered curtly, responding for the Captain.  
  
"How do _you_ know so much about it?" the Welshwoman asked.  
  
"Late night TV," came Toshiko's short reply.  
  
"Anyway," Gwen turned to the Captain again, "you should really watch it sometime. It's _so_ romantic."  
  
Both girls managed to sigh in perfect unison, and the Captain felt his lips curl up into an involuntary smile. "Probably not my kinda thing," he said doubtfully. But faced with their assertion that he simply _had to_ watch it, he finally conceded, "Okay, let's do it sometime. To me, it'll feel like watchin' one of next season's pictures in advance."  
  
Through the glass walls of the office, he could see Jack climb out of the hatch and head for his phone now. The man was wearing a different shirt from the one he had worn earlier, but his face still looked ashen, as far as the Captain could tell. Eyes cast down to the floor, he was walking back and forth in the glassed-in room, talking quietly into his phone, his free hand alternating between rubbing the back of his neck and pinching the bridge of his nose.

The Captain looked back at Toshiko. He really wanted to ask her if there was anything going on between her and Jack but decided against it. It was one thing to ask a man that question and quite another to pose it to a lady. That just _had_ to be wrong. Inappropriate, at the very least – or so he told himself, trying to suppress the feeling of doubt that was gnawing at his insides now that the fingers of his trembling soul had no wounds to touch, no nail prints to feel in the palms of eternity. No wounds, no wounds, no wounds – something about that made his senses tingle. There was something there, right in front of his eyes, in that blurry darkness. A glaring sign. Something obvious, something dangerous about his dark doppelganger, whose mere doubting twin he remained … But for some reason, the Captain's otherwise keen mind and sharp eyes were blind to whatever it was. And he wondered if the faithless would be blessed as well.

Later that evening, they had dinner together in the conference room. (Well, technically, it was just the Captain and the girls, as Ianto came in only once or twice: to bring Toshiko and the Captain coffee and to refill Gwen's cup. Jack, for his part, didn't turn up at all, and the Captain honestly hoped that the man had laid down for the rest of the day. Somehow, he doubted it, however.)  
  
When the food Ianto had ordered for them arrived, the Captain felt his eyebrows rise in surprise. "Well, aren't you adventurous!" he muttered. He was pretty sure he had never had Chinese food before.

The two women gave him a doubtful look. Apparently, the last thing their eating habits here at Torchwood could be called was 'adventurous'.

Toshiko mumbled something cryptic about 'globalization' and proceeded to show him how to eat with the funny little sticks that had arrived together with the food, which, despite all his dexterity, ended with rice flying all over the conference table and a stammered apology on his part. Gwen just patted his bicep comfortingly (and maybe a tad too elaborately) and started telling him about Jack's phone call with royalty. As it turned out, the current monarch was, indeed, a queen. Somehow, the conversation jumped from there to the topic of Weevils, and the Captain listened in amazement as Toshiko told him what they looked like. That, in its turn, prompted Gwen to show him how Weevils moved, hissed and attacked using their fangs, which led to another explosion of rice all over the table – this time, caused by the laughing, coughing Welshwoman.  
  
It was late, very late, when he finally left the conference room and headed for Jack's office.  
  
Toshiko had seemed a bit reluctant to go home, whereas Gwen had been surprised to discover how late it had become. "Oh, look at the time; Rhys will be worried."  
  
The Captain, for his part, was strangely anxious to get back to Jack, having spent most of the day with people who, just a day before, had been total strangers to him.  
  
He stretched his aching back and jogged up the stairs to the man's office, noticing that the blinds behind the glass walls were drawn. Stopping on the top step, he hesitated for a second, not sure what to do, then extended his hand and rapped softly on the door. To his surprise, there was an immediate response. "Come."  
  
All the lights in Jack's office were off, and the entire room was shrouded in a cavernous semi-darkness. The Captain could barely make out Jack's shadowy silhouette, feet up on the desk, head thrown back, eyes clamped shut.  
  
He cleared his throat uncertainly and was about to ask the man whether he was alright when Jack suddenly raised his hand and silently gestured toward the hatch, never once opening his eyes.

  
  
ΨΨΨ

  
The Captain was lying in Jack's comfortable bed, unable to concentrate on his task of reading the CV Toshiko had written for him and memorizing the strange names of all the Afghan cities he had allegedly served in. Surely, this was all because of his tiredness. Surely, it had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with Jack's warm scent on the pillow or the fact that, in the deathlike silence down here, the Captain was acutely aware of every little sound that was coming from upstairs. It was like being trapped inside a grand piano, just above the sound board, even the faintest creak or rustle being amplified threefold and making his body thrum like a taut string in the stillness of the small, grave-like space. Every little breath Jack was taking upstairs. The somehow overly loud rustle of the man's shirt whenever he took a breath, soft fabric sliding against his chest and … _'Shit!'_ The Captain bit down on his bottom lip. _'Who am I trying to fool here?!'_  
  
As he turned off the light, he realized that he still wasn't sure if he was expected to say anything by way of good night. Maybe he should have offered the bed to Jack today, he pondered. He was feeling fine, after all. Jack wasn't.

The office upstairs was still plunged in darkness, but there had been the odd creak from above, indicating that Jack was moving uneasily in his chair.  
  
The Captain lay there quietly, willing himself to relax, but sleep wasn't coming tonight. _  
  
_Had he really overheard Jack say that he had lived through the entire war? _'But wouldn't that mean that he's been to the forties more often than he's letting on?'_  
  
The Captain groaned and turned on his side. _  
  
'Toshiko didn't seem_ _too perturbed by Jack's scream today._ _But maybe she just didn't want to display her emotions in front of me._ _Maybe she and Jack_ … _'_  
  
The bedsprings creaked as he turned again.  
  
Upstairs, there was a light knock on the door. "Jack?"

It was Ianto's soft voice.  
  
"Yes?" Jack responded hoarsely.  
  
"Better?"  
  
"I will be. Give it another hour or so," Jack said in a pained whisper. "I'm always like this … _afterwards_ …"

Immediately, the Captain felt a surge of compassion and concern well up in his chest again. As though he were responsible for Jack. As though he were still the commanding officer here. As though Jack were one of his men and …

"I know," he heard Ianto reply simply.  
  
"Gwen gone?" Jack inquired.  
  
"Yes, Jack."  
  
"Good." There was definitely a half-affectionate, half-pained smile in Jack's voice. "I really love her, but that voice of hers is just grating. Makes me want to vomit when I'm like this."  
  
There was a low chuckle coming from Ianto. "What did _she_ say, anyway?" the young man asked, stressing the word 'she' in a way that made it clear that he wasn't talking about Gwen anymore.

"That we can hire as many new field agents as we like. As long as they're …" Jack seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then he continued in a strained, strangely high-pitched voice and with a crisp British inflection that made it obvious that he was, in fact, doing an impression of some third party. "As long as they are as courteous, charming and … ahem, ahem … sightly as Mr. Jones, I shall pay for whomever you choose, Captain Harkness."

"Well, that's settled then," Ianto chuckled quietly.

"Actually, she might have also said something about forwarding a copy of his contract to UNIT," Jack admitted sheepishly.

"God save the Queen," Ianto sighed happily. "Even she keeps reminding you to do _the paperwork you seem so wont to neglect_."

"Those were her words exactly. How did you know? That's uncanny."

But the young man ignored the question and stated, "We'll send them the contract together with the report you've completed … Because you _have_ completed it, haven't you?"

"I've got a headache … I'll do it tomorrow," Jack grumbled glumly, sounding much like a petulant child. "And anyway, paperwork is evil."

"Well, it won't kill you to do it."

" _Very_ funny."

"You could be a bit nicer, you know," Ianto pointed out suddenly.

"Hm?"

"To _him_ ," the Welshman clarified.

The Captain felt his eyes go wide where he was lying in the dark. _'Oh.'_

"You practically snapped at him earlier when you were looking at the photos. Could you at least try to be nice for once in your life?"

"I don't _feel_ like being nice. I feel like ripping someone's head off," Jack growled.

Ianto just laughed in reply. "Oh, I'm not scared of you, you know. I stopped being scared of you a _long_ time ago … _sir_."

"Yeah, I wonder when _that_ happened," Jack muttered under his breath. "So, what do you expect me to do? Make him pancakes? Tuck him into bed at night?" he scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous."

The Captain turned in his bed again, quietly but resolutely putting the pillow over his head to drown out the voices from above. He felt uncomfortable eavesdropping on what they obviously thought was a private conversation. If they wanted to talk about him, fine. They had every right to do so. But it was none of his business, and common courtesy dictated that he not listen in on it. This was how things were done under any officer's unwritten code of honor, and he could not and would not violate it, he thought, feeling, all of a sudden, more and more like an intruder in Jack's quarters.  
  
 _'But imposing on Jack's hospitality isn't the worst thing you've done to him,'_ a voice whispered in the back of his mind. _'You've done something a lot worse'n that.'_  
  
The pillow covering his face felt warm and suffocating. _'You've forced yourself on him. Made him dance with you_ … _You even made him–'_

No! He wasn't going to think about that.  
  
It had been a foolish moment of insanity. Nothing more. Just a bit of fun. Monkey business. He had had too much to drink. And surely, Jack had forgiven him for this stupid joke already. (If he even remembered it.) People danced and drank and played pranks on each other when there was a war on. That was normal, right? Anything to forget reality for a few short hours. _  
_  
The Captain started tossing and turning again. _'But you wanted it. You came to him. You made him _… _'_ his guilty conscience whispered. _'And, good man that he is, he pitied you because you were about to die_ … _And now that you've realized that he is with Toshiko, you're_ –  _No!'_ he stopped the thought before it could even fully form in his mind. _'Toshiko is a nice girl. Why shouldn't Jack want to be with her?!'_ he reprimanded himself.  
  
Squirming under the thick pillow, with Jack's scent suffocating him and robbing him of his senses, the Captain didn't notice when he finally slipped into a restless sleep.  
  
 _A German had captured him, holding him restrained with a firm grip on his arms. The sun was blocking out the man's face, and all the Captain had caught was a quick glimpse of a death's-head badge flashing on his cap and reflecting the harsh sunlight. The guy was snarling something in German that the Captain didn't understand, violently yanking him back by his arms, fingers digging into his biceps until it hurt._ – _This was bad. This was very, very bad. The Captain was certain of that. And somehow, he knew that the Germans wanted to get something out of him. Information, intelligence, something_ … _They were after somebody_ … _He couldn't remember who it was_ … _But for some reason, they needed his information to hunt this person down. It was someone_ … _someone he knew. Someone important. Someone_ …

 _"Where is he?" the man exclaimed, switching from German to English. His voice seemed eerily familiar, and the complete lack of a German accent was both odd and alarming. Whose voice was that? Why was it so familiar?_ – _"We need to know where he is. Now, will you cooperate or not?" the dark figure shouted again, almost dislocating the Captain's shoulders when yanking on his arms._ – _Who was the man talking about? What kind of manhunt was this? What was going on here?_ – _"Well, if you don't want to cooperate, we can do this the hard way_ … _Let's see, what will it be? D'you want me to chop off your fingers?" the German growled into his ear. "One by one." He forced the Captain down to his knees. "Or do you want me to burn you alive, your skin peeling away as you scream in the fires of Hell? Or how about I throw you into that abyss over there. I mean, forget flying. Have you ever considered plummeting as a career choice?" he spat. – Why was that voice so familiar? Who was this German? Why was his English so good? And who was it that he was after?_

 _"Now, tell us where he is!" The Captain writhed in the man's grip, but it was in vain._ – _How could he tell the man these Germans were pursuing that he was in immediate danger, how could he warn him if he couldn't even remember who it was? Just who was this interrogation about?_ … _And then suddenly, something deep inside the Captain's soul started to whisper that that was a dark and deadly secret. And that, even worse, there was a secret inside the secret. But the more he racked his brain for a plausible answer, the more he felt as though it were slipping through his fingers._ – _"Well, if you don't want to tell me where he is, I'll have to make you," the German said in his strangely flawless English. "So, what will it be? Fire, gravity or an axe to your fingers, hm?" he whispered almost sweetly. – "Don't_ … _" the Captain grit out through his teeth, straining against the man's grip. "Not my hands."_ – _His captor just laughed darkly. Why was that chilling laugh so familiar? Why didn't the man sound German? – "Nice try. We'll start with your fingers, then." Suddenly, the German had an axe in his hand; it was glistening in the painfully white sunlight, a stark contrast to the man's pitch-black uniform. "Let's start with your thumb_ … _And then maybe, you'll be more cooperative," he snarled in his sickeningly sweet voice. "Let's get started_ … _chop, chop!"_

 _The axe blade was descending with a loud swoosh. And at that moment, at the very climax of this rampantly violent scene, the Captain saw it: in a flash of blinding light and glistening metal_ … _The reflection of his captor's face in the polished axe blade. It was Jack's face. His torturer was Jack!_

_"No!" the Captain cried out in anguish and something akin to strangely misplaced desire, unsure himself whether he was screaming because of the axe that was about to sever his thumb from his hand or because of what he had just seen._

_Someone was gripping his shoulder. Hard. "No, let go of me. No!" the Captain cried out again, feeling someone shake him. The axe blade began to dissolve in front of his eyes before it had even reached his thumb. And with it, the other man's face, the all-too-familiar reflection of those steely blue eyes and that chiseled jawline and cleft chin dissipated like a ghost._  
  
"Jack! Wake up!"  
  
"No, no! Let go off me!" the Captain cried out again.  
  
"Jack, it's a dream. Wake up! … Come on, Jack, wake up."  
  
He knew this voice. It was … _'Oh, God!'_  
  
The Captain opened his eyes, looking up in embarrassment, and was met with a concerned cobalt blue gaze boring down on him from the shadows.  
  
"James?" the Captain heard himself whisper for some reason.  
  
"You … okay?" Jack's voice asked quietly and a bit hesitantly.  
  
The Captain's heart was still hammering away in his chest. As if the incubus that was sitting on it were refusing to loosen its hold on him just yet. As if it were pressing down on the Captain's torso, making his ribs clench and his lungs hurt with each ragged breath he was drawing, holding him prisoner to his own demonic nightmare, to his own dark and yet strangely passionate dream, this hidden reality filled with terror and some twisted sense of lust, the cloudy eroticism of which the Captain didn't even want to think about, hating his own treacherous, trembling brain for producing those thoughts in the first place.

He sat up in bed abruptly, feeling his entire six-foot frame thrum minutely like a Spitfire about to take off. The spot where Jack had touched his shoulder just a few moments ago was still tingling, the warm sensation flowing down his arm, to his hand … to his thumb.

Somehow, the pillow had landed on the floor, and apparently, he had pushed his blanket all the way to the end of the bed in his sleep as if to rid himself of whatever had been bearing down on him, as if to perform his own kind of exorcism.  
  
Jack's face was still looming above him in the shadows, and maybe that was the reason why his breathing was refusing to even out, blessedly cold air slamming into his brain, then crossing down to his diaphragm and into his lungs, traveling first left, then right. "I'm … real sorry," he finally managed to utter.  
  
"What are you sorry f–" Jack started quietly, but the Captain interrupted him.  
  
"I … uh … should … I'll … be right back," he muttered quickly and swung out of bed, padding over to the bathroom, still only half-awake, trying to shake off the spectral remnants of his dream.  
  
When he returned to the bedroom a few moments later, pulling the bathroom door closed behind himself, Jack wasn't there anymore. The second door in the room stood slightly ajar, casting a long shard of light onto the book-lined wall opposite, and the Captain could hear the other man rummage around in what he assumed was a small kitchen.  
  
He hadn't noticed earlier that the brass floor lamp was on, its soft, warm light pooling around the old leather armchair standing beside it while leaving the rest of the bedroom in darkness.

There was an open book lying face-down on the chair's armrest, as if someone had just put it down. Squinting, the Captain read its title _'Tunguska'_ but didn't know what to make of it. And were those … were those reading glasses resting on top of the thick tome?  
  
How long had Jack been sitting there, reading? Just how long had the man watched him sleep? What was he doing reading in the middle of the night, anyway? Couldn't he sleep?  
  
Jack re-entered the room, a glass of water in his hand.  
  
"You alright?" he asked a tad too casually, handing the Captain the glass. The tension between them was almost palpable now. And why did it seem as though they were both tripping and stumbling over their words? The Captain felt embarrassed that someone had witnessed him having a nightmare. And maybe Jack felt embarrassed too, having been caught watching someone at their most vulnerable.  
  
The Captain gulped down the water, feeling, without having to look, that the other man was watching him drink, that those blue eyes were fixed on the column of his throat, never once looking away as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful.  
  
When he had drained the glass completely, he handed it back to Jack, feeling uncomfortable in his own skin, overly conscious of each and every one of his movements and acutely aware of how he tried to avoid letting his fingertips graze Jack's.

Their eyes met.  
  
There was a look of alert seriousness on Jack's face, all traces of his headache having vanished from his features, his eyes bright and clear.

The Captain felt himself squirm under that calm, intent gaze like some green cadet trembling at the sight of four stripes on a sleeve. It was ridiculous, but that was how he felt. And what made it even worse was his less-than-presentable appearance, the awkward realization that he was standing there in Jack's rumpled pajamas, his feet bare, his hair sleep-tousled, in front of the man who was practically his boss now.  
  
He felt his hand shoot up to his hair reflexively in an attempt to smooth it down. Jack's eyes were following his every move like a cat after a string.

The Captain swallowed hard, letting his hand slowly drop again.  
  
At that moment, something came back to him from out of the haze of his dream. _'I called him James. Whyever did I do that?'_  
  
And there was something else as well: had the other man really called him by his first name? Had he called him Jack? Or had that been the fog in his head?

The Captain's eyes skittered away from Jack's intense, unwavering gaze. The man wasn't wearing one of his usual shirts, the Captain noticed, just a snug white t-shirt, his gray suspenders carelessly hanging down from his trousers.  
  
The Captain's eyes then trailed up Jack's tanned upper arm, to where the edge of the man's t-shirt sleeve was cutting slightly into his well-defined bicep … and felt his mouth go dry all of a sudden.  
  
How was it that he could feel his throat constrict at the mere sight of that chiseled jawline and that strong neck rising from a simple, collarless shirt? How was it that he had to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from doing something stupid whenever he caught a glimpse of the man's warm, sun-tanned skin and broad shoulders, that were hidden under just a thin layer of cotton now? And when he let his eyes drift even lower, down those flat planes of chest and abdomen, to that belt buckle, down to … _'God!'_ … the urge to just grab the man by his narrow hips and slam him into the nearest wall became almost unbearable, just as powerful as the aggressive drive to make a kill once an enemy aircraft had been sighted, this testosterone-ridden imperative to claim and mark and rip apart … The Captain didn't even know exactly what he wanted to do to the man in front of him; he just knew that he needed a catharsis. And this ferocious need to just take and conquer and punish Jack for appearing in his dream and forcing him to surrender (thus making him be the weak one) was undeniable.

Embarrassed, he looked away. The name _'Toshiko'_ kept flashing in his mind.

Sometimes he wondered if there were different circles to Hell, just like there were different layers to sin. And while he had more or less resigned himself to his fate of ending up in one of them, he would not dig himself in any deeper. To even thinkthose kind of thoughts was probably wrong beyond wrong, but _that_ he could shrug off. He would, however, not make things worse by going after someone who was with somebody else. Besides, just because he himself was a candidate for one of the hotter places in Hell, didn't mean he had to drag Jack down with him. And if it was the only noble thing he ever did, he would pull himself together now and wouldn't … wouldn't …

He cleared his throat. "I guess I'll just …" He jerked his head stiffly in the direction of the bed, still standing upright as if to attention, wondering if the other man could hear the forceful grinding of his teeth. The silence in this dark sarcophagus of a room felt uncomfortable and wrong around them.  
  
Jack seemed to swallow. "Yeah … yeah, you should …" He coughed, gave a quick nod and disappeared through the kitchen door, empty glass in hand.  
  
The Captain picked up the pillow from the floor and quickly got into bed again, pulling the blanket up to his neck and turning to face the wall.  
  
He heard Jack's footsteps return and the soft creak of leather as the man sat down again.  
  
A long silence ensued. _  
  
'Why isn't he reading his book? Is he watching me?'_ the Captain wondered, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. _'And why can't he just read it upstairs, in his office?'_ And anyway, someone who had almost been mauled by some stray Martian earlier in the day should probably go and hit the hay, shouldn't he?

It wasn't that the Captain had a problem falling asleep with someone else in the room. Close your eyes and pretend you don't hear all the noises around you – that was the way it worked in the barracks. (The single room had come later, with his steep climb up the promotion ladder.) Besides, all of them had gotten pretty used to sleeping in each other's presence, standing upright, fully clothed, leaning against a wall or with a chessboard as a pillow, waiting for the next alarm to go off. But this, this here, was different. It was unsettling in more ways than the Captain could describe. Mainly because of the total silence and the fact that he felt watched.

He pretended that he didn't care, holding his breath for what seemed like an eternity.  
  
At last, he could hear Jack release an impossibly soft, trembling breath. Then there was a faint rustle as the man picked up his book again, apparently having decided that the Captain was fast asleep.  
  
For all his fears and doubts, the Captain slipped into slumber rather quickly, as if the scrutinizing look of his new commanding officer didn't even matter anymore.  
  
Maybe it really was just in the instinct of every soldier to fall asleep as soon as provided with a flat surface to lie on.  
  
Or maybe some hidden part of his brain felt secretly relieved that someone was watching over him while he slept.  
  
Or maybe both.

 

  
  
ΨΨΨ

 

  
  
He awoke after a long, restful sleep, feeling incredibly content, relaxed and warm under his blanket. Faint strains of a familiar tune1 were drifting into the bedroom through the half-open door. A twittering clarinet … and something about nightingales … a puzzled moon frowning …

He yawned, rubbing his still-closed eyes, and smiled as he realized how stupidly at home he felt, how ridiculously at peace … Maybe it was just the warmth surrounding him or the lazy sugary tune seeping in from the kitchen or the comforting scent on the pillow. (Strange. How could there be someone else's scent on the pillow when he was in his bed at the base? Because he was, wasn't he?)

The nice fresh scent was mingling with some other smell wafting into the bedroom …

 _'Are those pancakes?'_ he sighed inwardly. _'No, can't be. You're dreamin'. Don't be ridiculous!'_ he told himself off, chuckling quietly. The warmth of the blanket was seeping into his every bone … Slowly, he turned on his side … Warmth everywhere and … Oh!

 _'Well, so much for the myth that there's bromide in the ration tins,'_ he thought with a half-embarrassed smirk. _This_ definitely hadn't happened once since he had joined up. In the mornings, at least.

Oddly enough, he didn't feel bad about it. There was no dread, no fear, no sense of guilt like when he was with a woman … There was no sense of urgency or need either. Just quiet and warmth and heaviness. And a slightly childish twinge of embarrassment in his stomach, as though he had suddenly turned back into a civilian, as though the war were over and all that he had to worry about was …

"You awake?"  
  
 _'Jack!'_ And just like that, the Captain's eyes flew open. Then everything came rushing back to him: Jack, 2008, Torchwood, the Hub … _'Jesus! And I'm lying here with an_ – _'_  
  
With one swift movement, he pulled the blanket up to his chin. "Morning," he muttered uncertainly.  
  
"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," Jack smiled. "Just thought I'd go get you. Pancakes'll be ready in ten."

For a second, the Captain just gaped at the other man. "Pa– Oh, never mind." He quickly looked at the clock. _'10:51 am! Shouldn't get used to sleeping in like this.'_  
  
"Relax, it's Sunday. We're alone. No one's comin' in today," Jack said, something uncertain and vaguely bashful in his voice. "Unless there's an emergency, of course."

He flashed one of his trademark mischievous smiles, looking for a moment as if he were trying to hide behind it like a magician behind a dazzling curtain, and disappeared through the door, leaving the confused Captain alone once again.

  
  
ΨΨΨ

 

  
When he left the bathroom a few minutes later, deftly rolling up the sleeves of the shirt he had just put on, the Captain realized that the music had changed to a faster-paced tune.2 He stepped through the door Jack had just exited through and was surprised to discover an entire living room where he had expected to find a small kitchen. What did stop him dead in his tracks, though, was the sight of Jack standing in a kitchenette in the corner, frying pan in hand, shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows, grinning maniacally like some crazy artist about to create a masterpiece or have a stroke.

Now, that was odd, wasn't it? For all the powerful and sophisticated machinery men were capable of controlling, stoves weren't supposed to be their territory. Men who were good in the kitchen were … suspicious (to say the least) … Apart from the French. The French didn't count, the Captain reckoned. On account of their being, well … French.

But with everyone else, it was a different story. It was suspicious. And not just for the obvious reasons … No, there was also another observation the Captain had made: in his experience, only those men who had a problem with authority and often failed to comply with the rules knew how to cook. It was a sign that, at every stage in their life, at school, in the military, everywhere, there had been someone to send them down to the kitchen to peel potatoes. And it was the troublemakers' punishment that resulted in them knowing how to go about the (not exactly manly) task of preparing meals.

George had been a case in point. The Captain had overheard him boast about his 'culinary skills' once, which to the Captain always translated as 'has clashed with literally every authority figure in his life.'

The Captain cleared his throat, deciding to ignore said skills being displayed in front of him. "That Artie Shaw?" he inquired instead. (An innocuous question about music. That was probably more appropriate.)  
  
Jack looked up at him from where he was bent over his frying pan, flipping pancakes, and wagged his finger. "Blasphemer! _That_ … is Benny Goodman."  
  
The Captain felt himself smile. "How could I?!" he laughed, putting a hand over his heart in mock-distress. "I bow before the King."  
  
Jack chuckled, flipping a pancake in the air and deftly catching it in the pan again.

The Captain watched him impressed, noticing that the other man was throwing him furtive glances as if to make sure that his showing-off was having the desired effect. There was something akin to a proud sparkle in his blue eyes, and it was obvious that he was trying to suppress a triumphant grin.

The Captain felt himself shake his head involuntarily, but he didn't manage to fight back another smile. Jack's upbeat mood was just too infectious.  
  
Still shaking his head, he turned to take in the entire living room. In a way, it looked more like a library of sorts, lined with bookshelves as it was. There were probably twice or even three times as many books lining the walls in here as in the bedroom. _'Books_ … _books everywhere,'_ the Captain realized. Old, battered and well-read books, crammed into every single inch of space and stacked up to the ceiling.  
  
"You read all these?"  
  
"Yep," came Jack's distracted response from the kitchenette.  
  
How could that be possible? How could one person have read that many books?  
  
"Lots of time on my hands," Jack added, as if he had just read the Captain's thoughts. "Here, catch!"

In a flash, the man's hand had shot up, and the Captain saw something silvery come hurtling through the air. Before he had even realized what it was, though, his own hand had darted out, catching the object with deft precision. When he looked down at what he was holding, he felt his eyes go wide.

It was a knife.

And apparently, he had managed to catch the thing securely by the handle without so much as a scratch to his palm.

"Knew it," Jack drawled casually. "Lightning-quick reflexes … You must be a crack pilot."

"You know, if you want me to set the table, there are other ways … Ways that don't involve me losing my eyes," the Captain joked, bashfully trying to move the topic in a different direction.

"Yeah, we wouldn't want that, would we?" Jack smiled to himself. He handed the Captain some more silverware and two plates. "Just wanted to see if there was a reason for your fast ascent through the ranks. Guess I've got an idea now."

"Oh, well …" the Captain shrugged, quickly averting his eyes.  
  
He set the plates and cutlery on the wooden table, that seemed as weathered as the bookshelves lining the walls and as old as some of the most ancient books on said shelves.

Bookshelves, a dining table and a few mismatched chairs, there wasn't much more to see in the room. And yet, the whole place felt homey and comfortably lived-in.  
  
Suddenly, the music stopped, the needle sliding off the record with a low scratching sound.

The Captain stepped over to the old _Victrola_ in the corner to turn the record over to the B-side. As he picked up the beat-up vinyl 78, he noticed what was printed on its label. _'Recorded: June 12, 1944,'_ he read, feeling the same sense of vertigo as when Toshiko had told him about _'Casablanca'_.  
  
Theoretically, he knew that he was looking at something from the distant past, but, to him, it still felt like being able to see into the future.  
  
He made his way over to one of the bookshelves to skim through Jack's large record collection, the messy stacks of which were taking up the entire top board.

"Someone likes Glenn Miller," he remarked after the first half-dozen records or so.

"Don't _you_?" Jack's voice asked from the kitchenette.  
  
"He's alright, I guess. Bit too sentimental for me," the Captain smiled. "I'm more of a Benny Goodman man, myself."

"Well, maybe when you get to my age–"

"Oh, come on. You're makin' it sound like you're in your eighties," the Captain laughed.

There wasn't an answer from Jack. Probably, because the man was currently very busy flipping another pancake.

"And here I thought only girls swoon over Glenn Miller," the Captain teased.

"Oh, you don't even know all the great stuff he recorded later in the forties," Jack replied defensively. "Shame he died the way he did."  
  
"What d'you mean? Did he drown in a pool of money in 2007?" the Captain quipped.  
  
Jack looked up from his sizzling frying pan. "No … No, actually he died in 1944. During the war."  
  
"Oh." Somehow, this was affecting the Captain a lot more than he would have thought possible. It was too close to home somehow, too real. "How?"  
  
"Well, no one knows for sure … His plane disappeared over the Channel. He was presumed dead."  
  
"You're kidding me! Glenn Miller's plane?"

Jack nodded.  
  
"But he's … uh … Glenn Miller. He's a star. He's immortal!" the Captain exclaimed, the words slipping out before he remembered that he was supposed to find the man 'a bit too sentimental'.  
  
Jack's expressive eyebrows rose an inch. "Trust me, Glenn Miller was _very_ mortal," he said quietly. Then he quickly looked down at his frying pan again.  
  
"So, he just disappeared?"  
  
Jack nodded again.  
  
"Just like me?" The Captain shook his head thoughtfully. "Listen, what if some … some time traveler with a spaceship scooped him up? Like you did with me …" he suggested jokingly.  
  
"Actually, I know _just_ the guy …" Jack said, giving a dark laugh. "Loves dancing to Glenn Miller's music … Although personally, I suspect he uses the word 'dancing' to mean … something else entirely …"

"Well, who doesn't?" the Captain muttered, unable to stop the words from leaving his lips.

For a second, it looked as though Jack wanted to say something. But then he just bit his bottom lip, his hand briefly tightening around the wooden pan-handle.

"Sit!" he ordered before the Captain could get another word in, flopping a delicious-smelling pancake on one of the plates.  
  
"I have died and gone to Heaven, after all," the Captain sighed with a smile.

Jack gave him a knowing little smirk. "Wait till you try the syrup. I pilfered the bottle from under Ianto's nose before he could shelve it away in the archives."

"O-okay … And how come you can cook?" the Captain inquired confused, forgetting about his earlier resolve not to ask the man any personal questions.

"Like I said, so much time, so little to do …" Jack replied evasively, taking a seat opposite the Captain.  
  
 _'Strange,'_ the Captain thought, _'it didn't look like so little yesterday_. _'_  
  
He was about to say as much when – as if to flout Jack's statement – the leather wrist strap on the man's arm suddenly erupted into furious beeping. The Captain's fork dropped to the table with a loud clatter.  
  
"Not again," Jack sighed in irritation. "That's three days in a row now."  
  
From the main atrium, the familiar sound of the Weevil alarm could faintly be heard.  
  
Jack leaped to his feet. "Listen, I've gotta go. Just go ahead and start eating without me. Don't wait up!" he exclaimed, rushing out of the room.  
  
For a moment, the Captain could hear him rummage around in his office upstairs. It sounded as if he were getting his things together while simultaneously punching some number into his phone.

"… yes … yes, Gwen … Tell Rhys I'm sorry … I _know_ it's Sunday … Tell him I'll pay for your wedding cake once you've set the date for– … Look, I'll throw in the champagne too, okay? … No, the Captain stays here … _Of course_ , he can stay here on his own. He's perfectly safe at the Hub … There's _no one_ lurking outside the Hub! You were seeing things! … Can you pick up Ianto and Tosh? I'll pick up Owen on my w– … So what if he's still sleeping?! I've got a key to his– He _what?!_ … Well, if he's changed the locks, then I'll have to break down the door …"  
  
Then there was the sound of Jack's quick footsteps clunking down the ladder again and the soft rustle of his coat as he crossed the bedroom. A split second later, his head popped around the doorway. "I'm off. Forgot to make coffee, sorry … But mine isn't as good as Ianto's, anyway. There's probably still some tea in the pot. I was drinking it earlier. Shouldn't be too cold … And should you get bored, you're welcome to …" He made a sweeping gesture encompassing all the bookshelves in the room. "Well … I've gotta go."  
  
"Tally-ho, off you go!" the Captain quipped, but the other man was already gone.

 

  
  
ΨΨΨ

 

  
He could still remember the last time someone had made him pancakes. It had been Nancy's mother, and he had felt incredibly awkward about the whole thing. For one, it hadn't even been breakfast time; it had been a gloomy Sunday afternoon, and he hadn't expected Nancy's mother to be at home at all, much less to be introduced to her. And then, the middle-aged widow had seemed so happy and genuinely proud of her daughter seeing a foreign war hero that he had felt like a fraud. He had found this sincere cordiality absolutely baffling. Had she really believed that her daughter and him had only been holding hands?

The fact that the good-natured Welshwoman had probably used up an entire month's ration of powdered eggs on those pancakes hadn't exactly made things less awkward either, but she had simply insisted that if she couldn't thank all the brave boys 'up there' in person, she could at least feed one of them. The worst part, however, had been when she had set a plate in front of him and he had realized that he would be the only one eating. Nancy, her mother and her little kid brother had then watched him eat like one watches a foreign ambassador or king, and he had hated every minute of it.

This time, there was nothing to hate. The pancakes were heavenly delicious. The tea was still warm, and the fresh and aromatic scent of that formerly expensive and strictly rationed beverage had a calming and comforting effect on him. The most amazing thing, however, turned out to be the syrup. For even though the Captain had no idea what it was made of, he was certain that it tasted like liquid sunshine and summer dreams. He didn't even know why he was so sure as to what words to use to describe this strange molten gold on his tongue; he just was.

After this long and (by his standards) luxurious breakfast, he got up to sift through Jack's record collection, feeling like a kid in a candy store, and spent the next hour digging up old Duke Ellington and Count Basie recordings, rare Earl Hines and Fats Waller records (Had it really been so long since Amos had played him those?) and a couple of brilliant vinyls that bore the face of Benny Goodman on the sleeve.

It hit the Captain suddenly, out of the blue. Listening to all this great music a young guy like him was bound to love, he had somehow failed to notice the obvious. _'Jack lives here. In 2008. So, how come all his records are from the late twenties, thirties and forties? Where's the music of today's time? And_ … _coming to think of it,_ _Jack dresses differently from everyone else here too. What's that all about?'_  
  
As the last notes of 'the King's' clarinet faded away, the Captain found himself shaking his head in utter bewilderment. A cigarette would have been nice right now, but seeing as Jack hadn't returned yet, he didn't know whom to ask for one. He stepped closer to the bookshelf, intending to find himself something to read to kill time.  
  
The first book he randomly pulled off the shelf turned out to be an old, battered edition of Milton's _'Paradise Lost'_. _  
  
'Whoa! Not exactly what you'd call 'a light read','_ he thought, trying again.  
  
The next three or four books were all in French, of which he understood not a word, and upon opening one that bore the words _'A. Rimbaud - Une Saison en Enfer'_ on its cover, he discovered a handwritten dedication on the flyleaf, that he couldn't read, as it was penned in French as well.  
  
He grabbed another book at random. It was titled _'Cenodoxus'_ , which sounded mysterious enough to intrigue him, but unfortunately, it turned out to be in German.

The Captain whistled. _'Well, well, well, looks like someone knows his languages,'_ he thought.

He himself knew only the few words of German he had been taught in case he was ever shot down and captured by the enemy. And he honestly doubted that phrases like _'Nicht schießen!'_ and _'Ich bin verwundet!'_ would prove helpfulin reading and understanding an actual German book. (As a matter of fact, he wasn't even sure if they would have proven helpful had he actually become a POW. But that was a thought he would try to unthink whenever it crept up on him.)  
  
The next book turned out to be in Italian.

The Captain felt one of his eyebrows shoot up. _'He really knows his languages!'_

 _'Divina Commedia,'_ the title read. But unfortunately, the Captain didn't speak any Italian either, and so the well-read tome went back on the shelf.  
  
But it got even better from there. In short succession, he lifted another three books off the shelf. They were written in Spanish, Greek and some Eastern European language he couldn't identify and could only vaguely place due to the fact that the book had been published in Zagreb.  
  
By now, he had all but forgotten about his earlier intention to find himself something to read and was quickly walking up and down the shelves, scanning the book spines.

How was that possible? How could anyone have read that many books in a lifetime, let alone know that many different languages? Admittedly, there probably _were_ people who did speak half a dozen foreign languages, but there was a good chance that those were nutty linguistics professors, who lived with their moms and couldn't tie their own shoes. Jack, on the other hand, didn't strike the Captain as some kind of multilingual bibliophile. The man seemed to be constantly in action, dashing about with a quick grin and an even quicker gun. He didn't look old enough to be owning such a library. Had he just bought those books in order to show off? But every single tome in here looked well-read; the leather covers were battered, the book spines faded, the pages dog-eared and browning around the edges … Some of the books the Captain opened were full of marginal notes and underlined passages. In short, this book collection spoke of someone who had a lot of time on his hands and was bored with life to the point of dying.

But it got even more confusing from there.

The next few books the Captain grabbed off the shelf were covered in strange symbols or runes. Their beautifully arched shapes didn't look like anything from this world. And the fact that one volume featured the same hieroglyphics as the label on the syrup bottle was disconcerting at best. _  
  
'Calm down,'_ he thought, his heart suddenly racing. _'You've been to outer space_ … _on a real spaceship. You know they're fightin' those_ … _those Weevils. So, why shouldn't they be eating food from_ … _from_ … _another planet?'_ He shivered.

Putting the book back on the shelf, he stepped back into the middle of the room and just stood there for a few moments, rooted to the spot, totally and utterly confused.  
  
All of a sudden, he felt like an intruder in Jack's home again. It looked as if the others weren't even allowed in here, and here the Captain was, rifling through Jack's things in the man's absence. What if Jack had secrets? What if he intended to keep them? … But hadn't it been Jack himself who had invited the Captain to take a look around?  
  
The Captain reached out, grabbed onto the first thing that he could get hold of – it turned out to be the wooden backrest of the chair Jack had been sitting in earlier – and flopped down into the seat with an exasperated sigh. For a minute, his bewildered gaze kept wandering across the vast expanse of books in front of him.  
  
Then suddenly, as he gave the opposite wall a closer look, he noticed something he hadn't been able to see from where he had been sitting earlier: there was a small square of wall not covered by books. And with a little smile of recognition, the Captain realized what it was.  
  
'The wall'.  
  
Each and every single one of them had had one. Admittedly, in some cases, it hadn't even been an actual wall. Just the inside of a rusty old locker door or the wooden headrest of a bed. But nonetheless, they had all had one. Whether they had lived off base in a dingy little attic room rented from some elderly Welshwoman or on base under the wary eyes of their senior officers, who, after a while, had started to turn a blind eye to this kind of misappropriation of state property.  
  
'The wall'.  
  
Plastered with photographs and memorabilia. Postcards from worried mothers. Pictures of family members. Autographs of famous actresses. Pictures of said actresses in any state of dress or undress. Newspaper clippings. Complete sets of pre-war cigarette cards. Unused ration coupons. Well-used good luck charms. Love letters from a hometown sweetheart or a new-found love in Wales – or sometimes from both of them. Pictures of all the aircraft types a pilot had flown, sometimes with the man's personal score scribbled across one corner. Then, there were always many, many pin-ups and sometimes a few of the racier pictures the French volunteers had brought with them …  
  
You could read a man's life by looking at his 'wall'. And the Captain had often done so.

Newspaper clippings, for example, could mean two things: either an enthusiastic account of a dogfight some eager reporter had witnessed from the ground and the owner of 'the wall' had engaged in, or a sad reminder of a home town blitzed or a family member killed in an air raid. A picture of a brother almost always meant a brother lost to the war. Often, the brother in the picture would be wearing a uniform too …

All the different things on 'the wall' were pinned one on top of the other in a haphazard fashion, and as time passed, some items would become unlikely neighbors. Paper slips with Bible verses on them would get pinned on top of pictures of bare-breasted _demoiselles_ (or the other way around). Hitler cartoons, expertly doodled onto some empty cigarette pack, would end up next to the telephone number of some pretty Welsh Waaf …  
  
The Captain got up again and stepped over to Jack's 'wall'.  
  
He wasn't surprised to discover that its center was dominated by a large photograph of the Torchwood team.  
  
Judging by the furniture, it had been taken in a pub. And seeing as the whole team was in it, it had to have been taken by some stranger.  
  
At the center of the picture, a grinning Owen was sitting between the two girls, one of his arms casually thrown around Toshiko's slender shoulders, the other one slung around Gwen's waist, the look on his face saying, _'I'm incredibly_ _pleased with myself.'_ On the right side of the photo, Ianto could be seen staring at the doctor, eyes caught in mid-roll. Gwen, on the other hand, was openly laughing into the camera, one hand raised, toasting the photographer with her beer. Toshiko's face was betraying a more secretive smile, just a hint of satisfaction at having successfully managed to pull the 'rabbit ear' prank on Owen, without the doctor noticing her hand behind his head. (The Captain smiled, shaking his head in amusement.) Jack, for his part, was sitting a bit to the side, watching his team intently over the rim of the glass of water he was holding. There was a warm look of almost paternal affection in his eyes … and something else, something indefinable, almost wistful … the shadow of some hidden pain, not unlike the one a parent might feel upon receiving a terminal diagnosis for their child …  
  
 _'Maybe I'm just imagining it,'_ the Captain thought.

All in all, it was a nice picture; it had captured their different personalities perfectly. And it was very obvious how much the team meant to Jack, what with this photograph being the most prominent item on display.

Having expected to find other pictures on Jack's 'wall', photos of the man's family and friends, of a brother or sister, of people Jack loved and had grown up with, the Captain was sorely disappointed by the notable lack of any personal photos. It almost looked as if the man had a gaping black hole where his soul should have been, a void that was gnawing away at his past and at anyone who would dare to touch him.

Continuing his inspection of 'the wall', the Captain noticed a crumpled slip of paper Jack had pinned up next to the photograph.  
  
It read, _'All team members are reminded to NOT feed Myfanwy pizza. It doesn't agree with her! Ianto.'_ Under the text, someone had drawn a hilarious picture of a dinosaur doubled over and vomiting into what appeared to be a coffee pot. Next to the drawing, the words, _' So not funny, Owen!'_ were angrily scribbled in Ianto's handwriting.  
  
The Captain felt a tug at the corners of his mouth. The strange animal sure didn't look scary anymore when portrayed like this.

As he stepped closer to 'the wall', he realized that Ianto's note had been carelessly pinned on top of a whole lot of old yellowing newspaper clippings. Gingerly lifting the slip of paper by its corner, he tried to figure out what the newspaper articles underneath were about.  
  
They all turned out to be reports on the same strange phenomenon: eyewitnesses – different people from different cities at completely different times – claiming to have seen a blue box in their front yard or somewhere on a street corner. A blue box, often referred to as a 'flying police box' that was 'flickering in and out of sight' with a 'loud whirring sound.' In all these cases, attempts had been made by local authorities to connect the 'sightings' to an alleged drinking habit or a mental health condition of the respective eyewitness. Mostly, that hadn't really worked, though, as all the eyewitnesses had insisted that they hadn't been hallucinating.

The Captain shook his head in bewilderment. Why Jack seemed so interested in the fanciful ideas of lunatics and drunkards was totally beyond him.  
  
There was a large number of clippings, one pinned on top of the other, and it looked as if Jack had obsessively collected them over a period of many years, trying to get his hands on each and every published eyewitness report, and had then stopped for some mysterious reason. Maybe it had just been some kind of joke, the Captain mused.  
  
Under the team photo, Jack had pinned up all kinds of memorabilia: an old plane ticket stub (So, there were commercial flights to Chile now?) … a piece of string with a few keys dangling from it … a single playing card (The King of Hearts? Why not the rest of the deck?) … a postcard showing a wild forest, but nothing else, just trees … an old floral-print napkin with the words _'Like the cocktail!'_ scrawled on it for some reason …  
  
To the left side of the photograph, there was another newspaper clipping. Just one this time, though.  
  
The Captain instinctively sensed what kind of article this was going to be. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he started reading it and … turned out to be right.  
  
 _'Terror Attack on Canary Wharf!'_ the headline screamed. The photograph next to it showed a burning skyscraper, and even though the Captain didn't know where in London this had happened, who the people in the building had been and what the whole thing was all about, he could really empathize with the poor souls in there. Burning buildings … he had seen far too many of those for a lifetime.

Moreover, he knew immediately that this wasn't just one of those random tragedies that could potentially befall any place on Earth.

The fact that this article was hanging on Jack's 'wall' meant …  
  
 _'He's lost someone there,'_ the Captain realized, feeling a deep and tender sadness for the other man.  
  
The article itself was pretty vague. In part, it was referring to still ongoing police investigations; in part, it sounded like a bizarre mélange of different conspiracy theories. Facts where somehow strangely interspersed with fiction. Allegedly, drugs had been introduced into the water cycle and had made people 'see things' (though what things exactly the article didn't say). Furthermore, it was heavily implied that the authorities weren't so much investigating as just trying to cover things up by silencing journalists, bringing in Special Ops and restricting access for the public. It all sounded really odd.

But who was it that Jack had lost there? Why was this article hanging on his 'wall'? The Captain lifted one of its corners to take a peek underneath, discovering a large sheet of paper and realizing, at first glance, what it was. _  
  
'Names!'_ he thought, a leaden feeling of dread settling in the pit of his stomach. Names, lots and lots of names glaring out at him from the page. The horrifying face of death, neatly arranged in tidy columns. How often had he seen lists like this?!  
  
And there it was.  
  
He spotted the name in the last column, near the bottom of the page: _'R.Tyler'_.  
  
Jack had highlighted the name in yellow marker pen.  
  
Who was that? A friend? A colleague? A family member? The Captain realized that he knew nothing about Jack. Why did he feel this strange connection to the man, then? Because he felt that Jack was harboring a deep sorrow too? Because he sensed that he wasn't the only one haunted by the agonizing sound of coughs at night, tortured by the screams of a man trapped in the fireball his plane had become? Because there was this spark in Jack's blue eyes, this smoldering ember of agony, excruciating, hidden agony, flaring up in his pupils from time to time?  
  
Maybe this name was the reason for it. Or maybe it wasn't, and there were even more hidden depths to Jack than the Captain could imagine …  
  
Next to the list, pinned to the naked wall, there was a delicate white rose, its dry, crisp petals turning into dust under the Captain's fingertips; it was so old.

The Captain looked back at the list, only now spotting the thin horizontal line that was drawn through the name, a barely visible pencil line, the width of a hair.  
  
The name had been crossed out.  
  
Now, that was strange. Why highlight a name and then cross it out? The Captain felt that he wasn't getting something here.  
  
But the sense that he wasn't getting something half of the time and was still fascinated by it had somehow already become a familiar feeling, one part of his brain being addicted to this off-balance and out-of-breath sensation it induced and the other experiencing a dark sense of foreboding.  
  
He cast his gaze at the team photo again. From there, his eyes drifted upward to yet another sheet of paper.  
  
 _'Compound B67,'_ it read. _'Adult dose: 1 pill (1,000 mg) 24 hours deleted.'_ From there, it went on stating different dosages and different times.  
  
Was Jack sick? Was he on some kind of medication? Had this something to do with the bloodied shirt the Captain had seen yesterday? With the Weevil attack? With Jack's headache? And what did the words _'24 hours deleted'_ mean in connection with the dosage?  
  
With a weary sigh, the Captain realized that he had about had his fill of pondering questions and shaking his head for the day.  
  
Lifting the strange prescription by its corner (if only out of habit now), he peered underneath … and gasped.  
  
Staring back at him was his own face.  
  
Of course! How could he have forgotten that? The photograph. At the Ritz. He had introduced himself, and there had been a sudden flash. It had happened only a couple of days ago, and yet it seemed as if decades had passed … Well, technically, they _had_ …  
  
He regarded the picture with quiet amazement, Jack's chiseled profile, the way the man's face was turned toward the Captain … _'Of course! Jack already knew who I was,'_ the Captain thought, the full impact of this realization hitting him just now.  
  
For a second, he thought he could still feel Jack's warm hand in his, see the startled expression on the man's face.

He himself looked a bit surprised in the photo too, but for a different reason. He hadn't expected to get interrupted and have his picture taken. Surprised, he had turned to the side, which was why, in the picture, he was looking straight into the camera. Toshiko was there as well, looking at him, her black hair shining in the flash of the camera bulb. Somewhere in the background, George could be seen, probably checking out the booze …  
  
But there was something … The Captain couldn't put the finger on it.  
  
Something was … wrong … Something was wrong about this picture … Despite the warm handshake and the friendly looks … Something was … off … He couldn't pinpoint it, but an alarmed voice in the back of his mind kept whispering that he should …  
  
All of a sudden, he felt very tired.  
  
What had looked like a cozy living room stuffed with old books, had turned out to be a conundrum, there to tease him, not to be solved.

And wasn't it ironic? He, who had flown so high, who had tried to defy gravity, to flee Earth, to desert the ground, was now buried underground, trapped in this grave, surrounded by long walls of shelved madness, running deeper and deeper into the labyrinth that was the life of the man who called himself Captain Jack Harkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instead of a soundtrack:   
> 1st song: Glenn Miller "A Nightingale sang" (voc. Ray Eberle)  
> 2nd song: Benny Goodman "All the cats join in"


	11. Where there's smoke

  **11\. Chapter: Where there's smoke** Soundtrack: _Catch Me If You Can_ (Soundtrack) No. 1 Title Sequence

  
Having read his fake CV for what felt like the hundredth time, the Captain decided to have a lunch of leftover pancakes and cold tea and eventually settled down on Jack's bed, flipping open the book he had picked from the shelf. It was a well-thumbed old paperback by Saint-Exupéry, whose _'Night Flight'_ he had read and loved when he had been little more than a boy and whose _'Wind, Sand and Stars'_ had kept him sane in between sorties.

Vaguely wondering why Jack owned an English translation of a French book when it was obvious he would have been able to read it in the original without difficulty, the Captain flicked to the first page, realizing, with a slight sense of disappointment, that it was a children's book.

He was about to put it away when he noticed the first illustration: a picture of a hat, no doubt … Only that, on closer examination, it turned out that it was supposed to be a snake digesting an elephant.

The Captain laughed out loud, laughed at this funny little drawing in a way he hadn't laughed in months, possibly years, strangely relieved and almost liberated.

Then he read on, curious to see what this odd children's book was about, and forgot everything around him: all the strange things he had seen in Jack's living room, the spaceship that was parked in a field somewhere in the Welsh countryside, his fuzzy, pain-addled memories of their drive through Cardiff, and even his initial disappointment at not having been allowed to join the Weevil hunt …

And so it happened that he had just finished reading about the Little Prince's (not-quite) death and, like the pilot-narrator, was feeling caught somewhere between melancholy and hope when the door to Jack's office upstairs was flung open with a loud bang and the man himself came climbing down the ladder a few moments later. "Hey, you all right? Owen's waiting for you in the medical bay. Says he wants to give you your second shot."  
  
"Oh, right." The Captain quickly put the book down and got up.  
  
"I suspect he wants to do it now, so he can sleep in tomorrow," Jack grinned. "Sorry it took us so long, by the way. Chased a Weevil halfway through Cardiff," he added.  
  
"Won't that be on the front page of every local newspaper by tomorrow?"  
  
"Oh, it won't. Trust me. Eyewitnesses tend to … _forget_ …" Jack let his voice trail off, his eyes holding an almost dangerous sparkle for a split second. "Ianto's already seeing to that … By the way, how about you and I head down to the shooting range later, have a bit of fun?"

 

  
ΨΨΨ

 

  
A little later, Owen went through his usual routine of jabbing the Captain's arm, calling him a dozen different nicknames (among them 'Her Majesty's secret field agent') and making odd jokes about the vaccine being 'shaken, not stirred'. Having thrown the box of sticking plasters at his patient, the doctor then proceeded to ignore him completely, all the while muttering sullenly to himself. (Apparently, he was still sulking because he had just lost an entire Sunday to hunting down a creature from another world.)  
  
The Captain, for his part, had just put his shirt back on and was about to leap off the exam table when suddenly an all-too-familiar sound cut through the silence of the Hub.

They both flinched.  
  
"Bloody hell! _Four_ Weevil alarms in _three_ days! Stupid buggers must be losing it," Owen hissed at no one in particular.  
  
Moments later, Jack's form appeared behind the railing of the medical bay. "Owen, there seems to be another one. If we hurry up, we can still catch up with Gwen and Tosh on their way home and pick up Ianto from wherever he's 'interrogating' the eyewitnesses."  
  
To the Captain's surprise, Owen suddenly managed to look very busy, grabbing a file folder from his messy desk and quickly flicking it open.  
  
"Oh, come on, Owen. You've tried to pull that trick yesterday already," Jack sighed, a small exasperated smile creeping across his lips.  
  
"It's not a trick, Jack," the doctor replied indignantly, trying to avoid meeting his boss's eye. " _You_ said you wanted me to take another look at this Pharm thing and make sure I had all the paperwork ready for when your old chum Martha turns up."  
  
Jack gave his medic a look that spelled disbelief. "Says the king of avoiding work."  
  
"We all have our moments of creativity and genius," Owen declared with an air of self-importance.

"Yeah, right …" Jack muttered, an ironic lilt to his voice. " _Okay_ , you can stay. You can entertain the Captain while we're away … No goofing around. Are we clear?"  
  
"Don't worry. I'll keep a _Golden Eye_ on him," Owen smirked, and then they were left alone.

  
ΨΨΨ

  
It turned out that it wasn't easy to make small talk with Dr. Owen Harper. Courtesy seemed to be a foreign concept to the man, and he kept rebuffing all attempts at conversation made by the Captain.  
  
"So, can you show me one of these … uh … Weevils?" the Captain had asked him as soon as Jack had left.  
  
"Jack would have my bollocks if I did that," the doctor had muttered distractedly. "Scaring civilians with the Weevil is his favorite part of the entire hiring process."

The Captain had smiled at that. "It's been a long time since anyone called me a civilian," he had said as a conversation starter.

But Owen hadn't taken the bait. "Wha'ever …" he had muttered, before ignoring his patient once again.  
  
Currently, the man was thumbing through the file folder in his hand. The thing had a small red sticker on its cover saying: **Torchwood employees are reminded to always label the case files correctly. I. Jones, Archivist**.  
  
Consequently, there was a large square label in the bottom right corner of the front cover, on which all the necessary file information had to be provided. But instead of filling out the respective columns for case number, date and classification status, Owen had scrawled _'Roberts, Meredith'_ across the back cover of the folder in an almost illegible chicken scratch, that marked him as a true disciple of Asclepius.  
  
The Captain cleared his throat. "I couldn't help but notice that Jack was hurt pretty bad yesterday," he tried to engage the other man in conversation again.

"Oh, he's had worse, trust me," Owen replied absent-mindedly.

"I really don't mean to pry, but he seemed to have a, uh, really bad headache."

"Ah, well … he gets those … occasionally …" The medic didn't even look up from his folder.

"So, he's fine?" the Captain asked, feeling the knot of worry in his stomach begin to dissolve.

"That scratch on Ianto's cheek was worthy of a physician's attention; Jack's _'injury'_ wasn't! Trust me, I know what I'm doing. The man's as fine as he'll ever be."

A few long minutes ticked by without a word.  
  
"So … I guess gun practice is off for today, then?" the Captain inquired eventually. "Jack wanted to take me to the shooting range later," he added quickly by way of explanation.  
  
Owen still didn't look up from his work. "If Jack tries something funny in there, just punch him in the face," he stated matter-of-factly.  
  
"Uh … somethin' funny?"  
  
But the Captain didn't get to ask the doctor what he had meant by that cryptic remark because, at that moment, the man's phone suddenly started ringing.  
  
"Yes, Jack? … What? …  No! _Of course_ , I'm still at the Hub. What did you think?! That I'd swan off the minute your back was turned? … That was just the _one_ time! … What? … What did Gwen say _now_? … What, _again_? Heaven knows who she's seen up there! I'm pretty sure there's no one on the Plass or anywhere near the tourist off– … Look, if she insists, I can check out the CCTV," the doctor sighed, turning around and punching something into the keyboard attached to his strange monitor. But whatever the man had expected to flash up on the screen didn't appear, as the thing showed only static. "Fuck … CCTV's down again," he muttered. "Well, it's not _my_ fault, is it?!" He was practically shouting now. "Oh, just tell her to shut up, Jack, or I'll start treating her for paranoia," he grit out angrily and cut the connection, slamming the phone down on his cluttered desk and inadvertently knocking over one of the three half-empty cups on it.

Cold coffee spilled all over the documents littering the desktop.  
  
"Shit," he exclaimed. " _Shit!_ "  
  
What followed was a desperate rescue operation as they both scrambled to save as many sheets of paper as possible.

Between the two of them, they somehow managed to avert a complete disaster by clearing the desk of all the items on it. Owen mopped up the coffee with a balled-up t-shirt, and the Captain did the actual clearing part, quickly picking up one object after another and holding it up for the other man to dab at with his makeshift rag.

The variety of items on the desk ranged from coffee-stained documents to pens with their ends chewed off and a pile of photographs of a dead body. (They had spilled from the folder Owen had been holding earlier, the Captain realized.) Furthermore, there was a dirty scalpel, a stale cookie, a stethoscope, and a pornographic magazine, the front cover of which showed a female nude, the Captain realized with an awkward sense of discomfort.

Oddly enough, Owen didn't seem too embarrassed by the Captain's discovery. He didn't even try and hide the thing, giving his patient a knowing grin instead. "Careful, Spitfire! Don't cut yourself on the broken cup."

"I won't," the Captain replied quietly.

"Well, we all know what can happen when one gets … _distracted_ ," Owen suggested, giving the Captain a conspiratorial wink and setting the magazine aside.

"We should probably throw away the shards," the Captain said even quieter.

They worked silently side by side for a few minutes.

"I think that was all," the Captain stated finally.  
  
"Oh, you know what?" Owen sighed. "Sod it all! Let's step outside for a smoke."

  
ΨΨΨ

  
The Captain stepped out of the tourist office (that, as it turned out, served as a front for the Torchwood Hub) and into the dark summer night. The black water of the Bay was lapping gently at the quay, and the air smelled of rain. Apparently, the downpour had just stopped, the wooden planks under the Captain's feet still glistening with a sheen of moisture in the pale light of the street lamps. But it wasn't cold at all – a pleasant, quiet summer evening.

As he turned his head and glanced up, he noticed the futuristic outlines of the buildings surrounding them. And just like that, the vaguely familiar feeling of being out of place, out of time and out of breath hit him like a fist to the stomach again. Quickly lowering his gaze, he tried to focus on the entrance to the tourist office. _'Calm down! You know you're in 2008.'_

"Stupid picture, isn't it?" Owen's voice asked somewhere beside him.

The Captain blinked. "Uh … picture?"

"The skull. On the door."

 _'Oh, right,'_ the Captain realized, stepping closer to the entrance door.

Whoever had spray-painted the morbid picture on it, didn't seem to have any taste in color. The thing was a pale shade of green, that seemed to be glowing dangerously in the dark. A blotch of sickly, yellowish color screaming out into the blackness of the night, its pallid basic tint lending it a ghastly, ashen quality.

The Captain found himself strangely drawn in by the expanse of vile green, the skull's empty eye-sockets pulling him in like two powerful maelstroms, down into the vortex of nothingness, into the abyss of annihilation, grotesque, toothy grin seemingly laughing at him, providing the roaring background music to his fall. It almost felt as though the picture were reaching out to him, overwhelming his senses and overpowering his mind, mocking him and making him shudder, making him hear voices, have visions and sense … sense … He took a deep breath. Was that still the smell of fresh paint? Or was it something else entirely? A foul, putrid stench … like something decomposing … a rotting corpse … the pungent smell of the plague … the smell of …

"Creepy, innit?" Owen's voice interrupted his train of thought.

"Yeah," the Captain admitted shakily, tearing his eyes away from the door.

And at that precise moment, he saw it: a shadow. Right above their heads.

He had been sensing it for a couple of minutes already. A strange presence.

And now he had seen it. Out of the corner of his eye. For the fraction of a second. Behind that railing. A human form, flitting away like a ghost.

"There's someone up there!" he exclaimed. "Did you see him? That shadow?"

"No."

"I swear there was someone up there just now, listenin' to us."

"So?" Owen shrugged. "Probably just some bloke walking his dog late at night."

"But shouldn't we at least check him out?" The Captain made a step toward the stairs he could make out a little further down the quay, fully intending to run after this mysterious stranger. There was a voice in the back of his mind, telling him that there was something going on. Maybe it was just instinct, a soldier's gut feeling, but he had often relied on it, and it had never let him down.

"Oi! Where the hell do you think you're going?" Owen was suddenly blocking his way, hands on his hips.

"I just thought I'd …" The Captain's voice faltered. If there had been someone, that person would probably be gone by now.

"You can't just run off like that."

"Says who?"

"Says me. And I'm in charge," Owen pointed out importantly. "You're a Rift victim. You're not supposed to be running around already."

"Oh, come on," the Captain insisted. "Just a quick dash up there and–"

"No." The medic wasn't moving an inch. "I forbid it. And I outrank you."

"Yeah? _How?_ " The Captain felt his lips curl in an involuntary smile. Usually, he didn't flash it around like that, snide remarks and envious stares from other airmen having taught him to keep tight-lipped on the matter of his promotions. (It was enough that people kept going on and on about him being 'a bloody Yank' behind his back, grumbling that the higher ranks were 'reserved for Britannia's best and noblest.') But this time, he couldn't resist; it was just too tempting to tease the other man. "I'm a Group Captain. How exactly _do_ you outrank me?"

"Well … er … er … Shit! Gwen is so much better at this arguing thing than I," Owen muttered. "Er … I outrank you because … because … because I'm a medical doctor?" he suggested eventually.

"And medical doctors have been giving the orders since … when exactly?"

"Since … er … always," Owen pouted. "Besides, I'm older than you."

"Well, I'm taller. Does that count?" the Captain grinned. "Also, I could probably outrun you anytime."

Owen's gaze quickly traveled down the Captain's long legs. "And _I'm_ … erm … I'm … I'm … I'm _armed_ ," he seemed to remember suddenly. "And I won't hesitate to shoot you in the knee if you try to leg it," he muttered childishly.

"Oh, right. I forgot. That's the way things are handled here at Torchwood," the Captain quipped, feeling his grin widen even further. "To you people, shooting each other comes as natural as shakin' hands."

For a second, an expression of surprise flashed across the other man's face, surprise and perhaps a dash of guilt. Then he said, "Look, I really don't think Jack would be too happy with us chasing around the city. We haven't prepped you for all of that yet … And there probably wasn't anyone up there, anyway."

But the Captain knew what he had seen; he had sharp eyes. "There was definitely someo–"

"Well, then they're gone by now."

"Then let's hope that it _was_ just some Welshman walkin' his dog and not someone eavesdropping on us," the Captain sighed.

He turned around again to look out over the dark Bay. _'Strange,'_ he thought. _'The water is probably the only thing that hasn't changed since 1941.'_ But then, that was a stupid thought. Of course, it had. It looked the same, but that didn't mean it was. Everything was in flux; nothing ever stood still. And one couldn't bathe in the same river twice.

"We came here for a quick fag," he could hear Owen grunt. "So, a quick fag it is. And then back to work." The man was already leaning against the chain railing, searching his pockets for his cigarettes.

Maybe it was just out of habit, but the Captain slid his hand into his pocket too, fishing out his deformed cigarette pack and remembering suddenly what had happened to its contents.  
  
Owen looked up at him with a questioning glance. "Empty? Here, take one of mine," he offered.  
  
"Gee, thanks."  
  
The Captain took a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth and started to instinctively pat down his suit pockets. "I don't have any matches," he admitted around the unlit thing.  
  
Owen held out a smallish white lighter to him. On its side, the words _'Vote Saxon!'_ were printed in bold black letters.

For a few moments, it was completely quiet, the low click-click of the lighter and the gentle, but relentless murmur of the waves being the only sounds that could be heard. They smoked side by side, silently staring into the darkness.  
  
The second he had inhaled, the Captain had felt the smoke travel into his lungs like a warm sigh of relief. (How had he managed not to go mad without smoking these past few days? He hadn't even thought about it that much, he realized, living off the adrenaline of this place and all its madness.) Still, he would have preferred his own strong, unfiltered cigarettes over the ones Owen had generously shared with him. _'Wouldn't have put him down as a menthol guy.'_  
  
The Captain dropped his gaze to the gently rippling surface of the Bay where he could see the blurry reflection of his own slim form, his brilliantined hair almost the same color as the dark, troubled waters below. He couldn't, however, see the reflection of his face, hidden as it was behind the plumes of white smoke that were curling lazily from his lips, turning him into a tall, faceless ghost. The Captain felt himself shiver at the sight of this spectral double of himself, this surreal reflection in the constantly moving mirror of these waves, that kept lapping at the quay's supporting pilings like Time itself, quietly gnawing away at them and wearing them out. It was eerie to see himself in these black depths, he realized. This silent doppelganger, this dark omen of …

"You're not going to run on me, are you?" Owen broke their silence, eyeing him suspiciously from the side. "'Cause Jack would be royally pissed off with me, you know."  
  
"Why would I do that?" the Captain smiled. "We've already established that whoever was up there is long gone."  
  
"Oh … I dunno … With _you_ , one never knows …" Owen sucked on his menthol cigarette, seemingly hesitating for a moment. "With you _pilots_!" he stated finally, spitting the word out like an insult. "You are a special breed. Unreliable. Not to be trusted. One minute, you're here; the next, you're gone …" He took another drag from his cigarette, slowly blowing out the smoke. It seemed as though he were hesitating again. "Thing is, you're not the first one to have _flown_ here through the Rift."

"Oh." Well, that explained a lot. First of all, why Jack had been so sure the others would buy his story of how the Captain had ended up here.

"Yes," Owen replied in a clipped tone. "Only … you came through sans plane, whereas the other pilot was still sitting inside hers."

"Hers?"

The doctor cocked his small, skull-like head. "Good ol' times of exclusively male domains are over, mate." He gave the Captain a short, tight-lipped smile.

"That's not what I meant. There were women flying with the Auxiliary–"  

"Oh, you've got no bloody idea what world we're now living in," Owen laughed bitterly. "Men like you and me, we're finished. Dispensable. We aren't even really needed for reproduction anymore."

"Oh, come on, I'm sure it can't be _that_ bad," the Captain laughed, a bit confused.

The other man just snorted. "Birds, they just use us and throw us away, mate … Same with this riftugee I told you about. One day, she decided she needed a change in scenery and hightailed it out of here on her sodding plane." Owen threw his cigarette butt on the ground, forcefully crushing it under his heel. "Took Jack a few days to find out about it. But once he did, he nearly blew a gasket."

So, that was what had happened last time, the Captain mused. That was the 'time traveler fiasco' Jack had been alluding to yesterday … Or was there something else? Something even darker and more disturbing?

To his left, Owen quietly cleared his throat. "Thing is, it kind of … happened on my watch," he admitted sheepishly, his face looking even more gaunt than usual, features contorted in an expression of pain for about a millisecond. It almost looked as if he weren't telling the truth. Not the full truth, anyway.  
  
"Relax," the Captain sighed. "I'm not going anywhere. Besides, I don't even have a plane," he pointed out, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

In the ensuing silence, he could hear the waves beat softly against the pilings. A low sound, but regular as clockwork.

Then suddenly, Owen's shoulders began to shake with silent laughter. "Well, you could always hop on Myfanwy …" he snickered.  
  
They both started laughing, their shoulders bumping into each other casually, the last shards of ice between them breaking at that moment.  
  
"I won't," the Captain promised, still grinning. "I don't fly things that aren't painted in my squadron's colors."

"Oh, but we could paint RAF roundels on her wings, you know," Owen offered with a mischievous laugh.

"I'd love to see you try …" the Captain muttered, smiling around his cigarette. He took one last drag from it, blowing out a long wisp of smoke, and threw the butt into the black, undulating water, watching its tiny, smoldering light disappear in the darkness. "No …" he added slowly. "No, I guess I'm gonna stick around."  
  
"Good to know," Owen grunted. "Finally, another real man around here!" he then announced for some reason, giving the Captain a cordial slap on the shoulder.

"What, Jack and Ianto don't count?" the Captain inquired with a quizzical smile.

The doctor snorted derisively in response but chose not to elaborate. "The Torchwood smokers' club welcomes you to its ranks," he said instead. "We sometimes slink off to have a quick smoke up here."  
  
"Who is 'we'? You and Jack?" the Captain inquired.

"Jack? … God, no. Jack doesn't even drink."  
  
"Ianto, then?"  
  
"Ianto?!" Owen snorted. "Have you _seen_ the man? He's much too anal about health and hygiene to smoke. Thinks it's disgusting and unhealthy … and that it kills … which it _does_ , by the way … Want another one?" He held out his cigarette pack again.  
  
"Thanks. I'll … pay you back."  
  
Owen just waved at him dismissively. "Oh, it's fine. You don't have to."

"So … if it kills, like you say, why do you smoke, then? You're a doctor," the Captain pointed out.  
  
"Exactly!" Owen replied, blowing out a thick plume of smoke. "Part of the job description."  
  
The Captain gave him a quizzical look. Maybe the man was right. The doctors and nurses who had treated him back in Kent had all seemed on the verge of some kind of breakdown or at least headed downhill fast. Maybe that just came with the territory of being a physician. Maybe there were consequences to constantly seeing the things they were forced to see.  
  
"Self-destructive behavior, huh?" the Captain asked with a lopsided grin, taking a greedy drag from his newly lit cigarette. "So, who's your secret smoking buddy, then?"  
  
"Tosh."  
  
"Really?"

He hadn't expected that.  
  
Owen smiled. "Tosh is cool … For a bird, I mean," he added quickly. "We usually just hang out up here and complain about how our lives are shit … She's just an occasional smoker, though. So I don't get to whinge as much as I'd want … Good thing you've turned up. Now we can self-destruct together." At that, he grinned up at the Captain from his inferior height and elbowed him in the ribs.  
  
"Deal," the Captain replied casually around his cigarette.  
  
It was at this moment that he realized he really liked the doctor. Underneath the man's hard shell of hostility and cynicism, there seemed to lie the soft heart of a desperate child in need of an older brother to look up to. And the Captain already liked the easy camaraderie between them, so unlike the tense conversations he had had with Jack. It felt a bit like being back with his men.  
  
"As Jack's second-in-command, shouldn't you be more keen on health and safety, Doctor Harper?" he quipped, arching an eyebrow.  
  
"Is that what you think I am? Jack's bloody second-in-command?"

"Well, ain't ya?"

"God, no!" Owen laughed.  
  
 _'Oh!'_ The Captain felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Had someone said something, or had he just assumed it? Holding his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, he squinted at the other man through the smoke, then inhaled again, feeling his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks.  
  
"I _was_ for a while," Owen admitted quietly. "After Jack had executed Suzie, I–"  
  
"He _what?!_ " The Captain felt his back go rigid with shock.

As he stared at the doctor in plain disbelief, he realized that the man looked as though he could barely suppress the urge to slap himself.

"Oh, sod it! Eventually, you're going to find out about it, anyway," he muttered, more to himself than to the Captain. "Suzie was another team member. Jack's second-in-command … Yes, a _woman_! If that's what you're thinking … So, long story short, she sort of … er … ran riot … Oh, you know how these things go …" Owen shrugged.  
  
"Actually, I don't," the Captain replied firmly.  
  
"She … was probably bonkers to begin with, but this job screwed her up completely. She shot Jack. Tried to kill Gwen. We had no choice … I mean, we're talking about someone very unstable here. Someone who had committed suicide–"

"I thought Jack executed her."

At that, Owen's head snapped up, once again with a caught expression on his face. "Well … that too … yes."

"How can you execute somebody who's already committed suicide?"

"It's … complicated."

"Well, who'd have thought that," the Captain sighed sarcastically, blowing out another plume of smoke.

"Anyway," Owen continued quickly. "With Suzie gone, I became second-in-command. And you know what? I hated every minute of it! … Do you have _any_ idea what sort of things you've got to consider once you're a deputy leader?"  
  
"You have to be an example to the rest of the team?"

"Exactly!" Owen exclaimed in exasperation. "It was a nightmare, an absolute nightmare, I can tell you. Getting up early _every_ bloody morning. Punctuality and discipline and–"  
  
"Oh, the horror!" the Captain said in a mock-serious tone.  
  
"You can laugh all you want," Owen huffed. "I can't be arsed to do a job like that again … When Jack buggered off to God-knows-where last year, Gwen took over from me and led the team while he was away … You can't imagine how relieved I was to get all of that off my back. And she was quite good at it. Knows how to give orders and get things done. Let's just say, she's a force to be reckoned with … Can't fire a straight shot, but when she's on the warpath, it's best to duck and cover. I wouldn't like to be the Weevil running into her when she's in a bad mood," Owen smirked.  
  
The Captain chuckled, not doubting the man for a moment. Not after he had seen Gwen get up in Jack's face as though that were the easiest thing in the world. "But she isn't second-in-command anymore, is she?"

"Nope," Owen confirmed, extinguishing his second cigarette. "She hated it almost as much as I did … though for different reasons. Day in day out, she had to take all those hard decisions. 'Do I have to sacrifice this child's life in order to save the lives of countless other people?' Those sorts of things … And that went on for months and months." Beneath them, small waves were crashing ceaselessly against the pilings, punctuating Owen's words. "All those long months till Jack came back …"

This wasn't the first time that someone had mentioned Jack's mysterious disappearance, and the Captain was slowly starting to wonder what _that_ was all about. He flicked his cigarette butt down into the restless waves, turned his back to the railing and tucked his hands into his pockets, glancing over to the doctor.

"It nearly drove her crazy, this job. When Jack came back, she told him she didn't want to do it anymore."

"So, who does it now?" the Captain asked.  
  
"Ianto."  
  
"Really? Ianto? Ianto is Jack's second-in-command?" That was surprising; the polite young man just didn't seem the type, somehow.  
  
"Oh, don't underestimate Ianto," Owen remarked. "Usually, I wouldn't say this, but … he's a shrewd bloke. A good shot, too … But don't tell him I said that," he added quickly. "While Jack was away, Ianto took care of all the paperwork for Gwen, kept in touch with the higher-ups (and kept them at arm's length), ran Jack's office all by himself, handled all the correspondence, and helped her make some of the toughest decisions … He knows literally everything about Torchwood. (Either because he worked for Torchwood London before he joined us, or because he's in charge of the archives.) And he's seen a lot more action than any of us … Well, perhaps not you … But more than the rest of us. He's been through some real shit, and he's still alive. So …" He left the sentence hanging, staring into the distance of the dark waters.

"I didn't expect him to be Jack's second-in-command, but when you put it this way …" the Captain shrugged, hunching his shoulders against the strengthening breeze, both his hands still in his pockets.  
  
"I'm telling you, mate, Ianto's always pulled the strings around here. He's the power behind the throne, the one who controls everything from behind the scenes. When Jack came back, he just made it official."  
  
That actually made sense on some level, the Captain thought. From the snatches of conversation between Jack and Ianto that he had overheard, it was clear that the young man wasn't just a butler or the boy who put the files in order.  
  
"I even think this might be the reason why Jack seized the opportunity and hired you when you ended up here," Owen pointed out. "Torchwood Three has got _two_ leaders, not just one. And what better strategy than to have one of them out in the field and the other one atthe Hub when the shit hits the fan? Jack wants his deputy to be able to hold the fort at the Hub; that's why he needs a new field agent."

"He wants to have all the bases covered?"

"Yes. And he trusts Ianto with his life."  
  
There was a short silence as they both looked out over the dark Bay. The incessant slap-slap of waves against the wooden pilings beneath them sounded like a clock tick: faint, monotonous, almost negligible … and yet constantly present and absolutely merciless …

"The rest of us … we think Ianto knows things," the Captain could hear Owen whisper.  
  
"Things?"  
  
"About Jack. Things we don't know. Secrets," the doctor explained. "Stuff Jack's told him. Stuff we'll never get to know because Ianto will never share this knowledge with us; he's too bloody loyal … Not that this will stop us from trying to trick him into giving something away. There was this one time when we tried to get him drunk …" Owen chuckled at the memory. "It was my idea, as a matter of fact. (I tend to get very talkative when I'm pissed.) But with Ianto, it didn't work."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Owen sighed. "Ianto is a very quiet drunk." He pulled out his cigarettes again. "Want another one?"  
  
"I can't take advantage of you like this," the Captain protested.  
  
"Oh, rubbish! Take one. We're off rationing now, you know … and they aren't mine, anyway."  
  
"Whaddya mean, not yours?"  
  
"They're Tosh's. I nicked them from her drawer."  
  
"Now, that doesn't seem right."  
  
"Oh, come on. You've got your new name for a reason, you know. And it's _not_ Cooper," Owen smirked. "You're a Harper now. Start acting like one … Relax, I'll buy her new smokes. I always do. And she's never noticed anything … I'll slip them in her drawer, and everything's gonna be fine … Come on, she wouldn't mind. Take one … Or you know what? Take two while you're at it. I don't want to be the only self-destructive idiot around here," he grinned.  
  
The Captain took the two proffered cigarettes, still feeling a bit uncomfortable about the whole thing, stuck one between his lips and tucked the other one behind his ear – for later. Beside him, Owen was already lighting one for himself.

"Here!" the doctor said, handing him his lighter again. "Keep it. It was a giveaway. I've got ten of these."

The Captain smiled. "You must be a _big_ supporter of the … uh …" He looked down at the small white thing in his hand. "… Saxon campaign."

"Oh, I don't even remember who that was; I just took the lighters," Owen laughed. "Though it can't have been a very successful campaign, seeing as I've managed to completely purge it from my memory."

"Oh, well …" the Captain shrugged. "Politics … It happens."  
  
He was still fiddling with his unlit cigarette, his mind closing in on a different subject, hovering above it, hesitating to enter into a dive for a strafing run … There was this question he really wanted to ask someone … this one certain question …

Looking over to Owen, cigarette trembling nervously between his long fingers, the Captain summoned up all his courage. "Can I ask you something about Toshiko?" His voice sounded deeper even to himself, and he turned away quickly, shielding the cigarette with one hand as he lit it. (It was because of the strong wind coming from the Bay, or so he told himself. It had nothing, _nothing_ , to do with the fact that he didn't want to look the other man in the eye.)  
  
But Owen didn't seem to find any of this odd at all. On the contrary, he looked almost excited about the prospect of sharing some more gossip with his new friend. "Of course."  
  
"Are … um … Is … uh … is Toshiko Jack's girl?"  
  
" _What?_ " The doctor almost spit out his cigarette as he burst into laughter. "You're not serious, are you?" he exclaimed, coughing on the smoke.  
  
"Uh … actually, I am."  
  
"Jack and Tosh? You must be joking! … Who gave you _that_ idea?"

"They're not …?"  
  
" _No_. Tosh is the last person Jack would ever think of in that way. I thought you met them back in 1941?"  
  
"Yeah, so?"  
  
"Didn't you notice how bloody protective Jack acts towards her?" Owen sneered.  
  
Of course, the Captain had noticed that. It had even been the reason why he had thought they were a couple in the first place. _'Isn't this how you're supposed to act around a lady?'_ he wondered.  
  
"The way he treats her, you'd think Jack was her father," Owen snorted, letting the smoke out through his nose. "Maybe it's because she's been here longer than any of us. There is something connecting the two of them. She once mentioned it. Something … something about him helping her out of some trouble." Owen made a so-so gesture with his hand. "And ever since, he's been treating her like she's his bloody daughter."  
  
"I've noticed that, yes; it's just that I thought … Oh, I don't know," the Captain shrugged.  
  
"You thought they were shagging? No, believe me, mate, Tosh is probably the only one in the whole of Cardiff who doesn't want to do it with Jack."  
  
It was strange how Owen hadn't excluded himself – or the rest of Cardiff _’_ s male population, for that matter. _'Now you're imagining things again. Owen didn't mean it like that,'_ the Captain reprimanded himself. _'I've really gotta stop jumping to these kind of assumptions all the time_ … _Jesus, what's wrong with me?!'_ He plucked the burnt-out cigarette butt from his mouth and flung it into the water with a force that made his shoulder pop audibly.  
  
"Why are you asking?" Owen's curious voice inquired beside him.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Do you want to ask her out? Because if you do, I have to warn you: if you're only after a quick shag and want to move on to the next girl afterwards, I won't tolerate it."  
  
The Captain felt the corner of his mouth curl up in an involuntary grin. "Now who's the protective one here? Jack might act like her dad, but you're gettin' close to pulling the big brother routine right now, my friend."  
  
"Oh, so what?!" Owen huffed defiantly. "She's a sweet girl. I can't have you war heroes turn up left, right and center and break her heart all the bloody time." The dark slits of his eyes seemed to sparkle dangerously at the Captain, and for a second, they turned the same pitch-black color as the waves behind them … onyx waves rippling toward the quay, glistening in the light of the street lamps …  
  
The Captain shook himself out of his reverie. "That the only reason?"  
  
"Well … no," The other man looked at him a bit sheepishly. "Tosh sort of … liked me … I mean, _liked_ meliked me, you know. And I didn't like her back. Not in _that_ sense, at least … Look, Tosh has gone through a lot of shit lately, and she's my friend. So, if you hurt her, I'll break all the bones in your body, I promise," the scrawny doctor threatened, extinguishing his cigarette under his heel.  
  
"Noted," the Captain replied. "But I don't wanna ask her out; I just wanted to, uh, know what's what … and who's with who … I wanna know what I'm dealin' with here."  
  
Owen seemed to relax against the chain railing. "Well, then you're welcome to join our exclusive bachelors' club," he announced with a grin. "We all used to be single once. That was what Torchwood was all about back then: shoot, fight, save the day! Go home, get pissed and shag some bird! That was how it was done when I joined Torchwood. Sex, drugs and rock‘n’roll," Owen sighed.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Oh, that's just a way of saying: it was fun … But then …" The doctor made a short pause. "… Then Gwen turned up, and everything changed," he growled. "All the rules …"

"Oh, right, she's got a fiancé, hasn't she?"  
  
"You noticed _that_?!" Owen asked in mock surprise.  
  
"It's not like I could've missed it; she talks about him all the time," the Captain smiled.  
  
Owen just rolled his eyes. "She _does_ … Well, and ever since then, Torchwood has been turning more and more into some kind of Department for Children, Schools and Families."  
  
The Captain gave a surprised chortle. "What?"  
  
"Well, on the one hand, there are Jack, Tosh and me, fighting the desperate fight of the lonely and socially isolated," the doctor grinned, "trying to point out that we single people have rights too. And on the other, there's Team Wales, always wanting days off and whatnot."  
  
At the word 'single', the Captain felt himself exhale softly. As if a heavy weight had been lifted off his chest. Almost instantly, however, a voice at the back of his mind piped up, telling him off for what he was feeling. _'It's none of your business who Jack is seeing or if he is seeing anyone at all.'_  
  
Owen, for his part, was currently nearing the climax of his rant. "I really don't know what the Welsh do differently, but it seems to be working for both of them: they _do_ get 'lucky' on a regular basis … if you know what I mean."

"Oh, right," the Captain realized. "Ianto's got a wife at home, hasn't he?"

Hadn't someone mentioned that in passing? The Captain couldn't really recall who it had been. Ianto just seemed so much more close-mouthed than Gwen when it came to his personal life.

"Ha!" Owen exclaimed with a loud snort, eyes sparkling with malicious glee as if he were very eager to pass on a particularly juicy piece of gossip. "It's a lot better than that. Thing is … Ianto is–"  
  
"Moment of creativity, my ass!"  
  
They both started and whirled around at the sudden interruption.  
  
It was Jack.

"What are you two doing outside?" he inquired, briskly walking toward them across the wooden planks. It looked as though he had appeared out of nowhere, out of the shadows, out of the darkness of the Bay, his open greatcoat billowing out behind him in the same wind that was pushing the waves toward the quay.

"We just … wanted to breathe some fresh air. That not allowed anymore?" Owen huffed.  
  
A tiny, almost imperceptible grin appeared on Jack's otherwise morose face. "Fresh air, huh? Looks like this _freshness_ contained a lot of nicotine."  
  
"How do you know?" Owen asked, a nonplussed expression on his face.

"A) because I could smell you two from over there." Jack motioned with his hand in the general direction of the quiet, night-time city. "You reek of smoke. (I'm tempted to ask Ianto to hose you down before you go back inside.) … And b) because …" Jack lowered his voice, stepping closer to them. "… you still have _this_ behind your ear."  
  
And with these words, he extended his hand and snatched the cigarette from behind the Captain's ear, flashing them both a brilliant white smile, looking, for all it was worth, like a magician performing a magic trick.

The Captain felt a jolt of heat travel through his entire body, down from the spot where Jack's warm fingertips had slightly grazed the sensitive shell of his ear; it seemed to ripple through him like the waves on the wind-ruffled surface of the Bay, radiating into his every bone like a gust from a blast furnace and making his breath catch … as though the pendulum of a giant clock had suddenly stopped in mid-swing …

"So what?" the Captain heard Owen reply. "Isn't it allowed to have a smoke with a mate anymore? And where are the others, anyway? Why are you using the tourist office entrance?"  
  
"Felt like an evening stroll," Jack shrugged. "Gwen is driving Tosh home, and Ianto's already driven the SUV with the Weevils into the garage. I thought I'd take a little detour … Glad to see that you two haven't ripped each other's throats out in my absence."

"Oh, well," Owen said. "First, Top Gun here tried to run off and explore the city. But then we held a little pissing contest and agreed that I'm in charge … Right?" He grinned, giving the Captain a wink.

The Captain just nodded and winked back.

"O-okay," Jack replied, looking back and forth between them with a puzzled expression on his face.

It was at that moment that the door to the tourist office suddenly swung open to reveal a slightly worried Ianto (even if this worry only showed in the tiny crease between his eyebrows). "Ah, _there_ you are, Owen! I was about to start a search for you when I found the Hub empty." Then the young man's gaze seemed to fall on the cigarette in his boss's hand, and immediately, one of his eyebrows shot up, a small, questioning smile appearing on his face.

Jack quickly handed the offending item back to the Captain.

" _Owen_ …" Ianto said. (It was something between a question and a warning, and he didn't even look at the doctor, keeping his eyes fixed on his boss.) "You better give me these," he ordered quietly, authority laced in his voice, and extended his hand, palm up.  
  
Owen looked at the half-empty pack in his hand.  
  
"If you're going to nick other people's stuff, at least do it properly. I know what brand you smoke, and _this_ isn't it! So, it's now officially confiscated. Tosh will be wanting her smokes back," Ianto explained, proving that he had sharp eyes when it came to detail.  
  
The doctor mumbled something that sounded like, "Was gonna buy her new ones …" and slapped the carton into Ianto's open palm.

"Well, that's settled," the young Welshman announced blithely. "And now you can help me carry the Weevils out of the SUV … Oh, and Jack? The Élysée Palace is on the phone for you again. You better hurry down to–"

"Oh, can't you deal with that?" Jack asked to the Captain's surprise.

"Jack, I really think–" Ianto started, but the other man cut him off again.

" _Please!_ … I, um, wanted to take a closer look at that skull on the door, you know. Didn't have a chance to do so yet."

 _'So, that's Jack's real reason for taking this stroll,'_ the Captain realized, watching Ianto give his boss a pointed stare.

"Okay," the Welshman muttered eventually. "Come on, Owen."

The Captain watched as the two of them disappeared through the door, their bickering voices echoing off the walls of the tourist office and gradually fading in the depths of the Hub.

"What do you mean, you broke another cup, Owen?"

"No need to get your precious knickers in a twist, tea _girl_ ," the doctor's voice could be heard snapping back. " _You think I did it on purpose?!_ … And by the way, my favorite mug hasn't turned up yet. If I find out you broke it, I'll definitely shoot _you_ in the shoulder next time …"  
  
The Captain looked over to Jack, who was still standing beside him, and realization hit. _'The mug. Aboard the spaceship. Of course.'_

Jack winked at him conspiratorially and lifted his finger to his lips. "Shhhhhh!"

 

 

 

ΨΨΨ

 

The Captain wasn't really sure what he was supposed to do now; Ianto hadn't asked him to follow and help them, and Jack was just quietly staring at the strangely glowing skull on the door.

He cleared his throat. "Not exactly something for the picture gallery, huh?"

"I've sure seen nicer shades of green," Jack muttered, more to himself than to the Captain, keeping his narrowed eyes fixed on the eerie picture.

There was another silence.

"I think I kinda like it, though," Jack announced eventually. "Maybe I can persuade Ianto not to paint over it. I'd like to keep it."

"What, and you need Ianto's permission for that?" the Captain quipped, arching an eyebrow.

At that, the other man finally tore his eyes away from the door and looked at the Captain, giving him a thoughtful, almost speculative glance. "You will learn that nothing Ianto doesn't approve of will stay with us for very long."

"O-okay," the Captain replied, fiddling with the cigarette he was still holding in his hand.

The night was turning darker and colder, but Jack didn't look as though he had noticed any of that. He had turned toward the door again and was staring at it intently.

"Do you wanna know why I like it? … Look at _this_ here. What do you think it is?" Jack's finger was pointing at something that looked like a smudge of paint, a little to the right of the skull. (And God, even in the pale light of the street lamps, it was impossible not to notice how tan Jack's hand was, how strong and smooth at the same time.)

"I don't know. But it's definitely not a boa that has swallowed an elephant," the Captain quipped.

Jack smiled warmly, his eyes lighting up at the comment. "No, it's not. That's writing."

"Doesn't look like it."

"That's 'cause you're not used to graffiti writing. This here is a 'tag'."  
  
"Okay … And what does it say?"

" _'Et in Arc_ … _’_ "

"And what does that mean?"

"It means that our culprit isn't just a spotty teenager, who's hell-bent on destroying public property. He's an _educated_ , spotty teenager, hell-bent on destroying public property," Jack clarified with a grin of acknowledgment. "Because, unless I'm very much mistaken, this is the beginning of the Latin phrase, _'Et in Arcadia ego'_ … Ianto must have interrupted him while he was writing it. No wonder he almost gotsprayed in the face."

The Captain stepped closer to the door, hands clasped behind his back, unlit cigarette still dangling between his fingers. "I'm sorry, but I don't know any Latin."

"It's Death speaking, telling us he's awaiting us wherever we might be."

It had gotten quite cool by now, and the Captain could feel himself shiver in his thin civilian suit. "Um … Then this is a … a … What is it called again? A _memento mori_?… I'm sorry; my education was pretty erratic."

"I think that's _exactly_ what it is. Our young graffiti artist seems to have a bit of a morbid streak, doesn't he?

Because this picture tells us that we never know when Death will knock on our door. But he will definitely come for most of us and–"

"For _all_ of us, you mean."

"Yes, yes, that," Jack corrected himself quickly.

The Captain turned to look at the other man again and was surprised to see a completely waveless Bay behind him, just over his shoulder. Apparently, the wind had abated without the Captain even noticing, and the surface of the water lay almost impossibly still now, smooth as glass and quiet as a grave. The strange lack of sound was disconcerting, the slapping of the waves against the pilings having stopped completely.

"So, someone painted this to remind the viewer that life is short?" he asked quietly.

"Not just that. It reminds us that life is short and … that we don't know _when_ Death will strike," Jack smiled. "The Reaper is _the_ constant unknown that could be lurking anywhere …" There was something wistful in his smile now, something pained and almost paternally affectionate.

"Yeah, I know," the Captain smiled. "It's best to never forget that and to always face him with an open visor, right?"

Jack narrowed his blue eyes at him. "Is that why you joined up? To face him? To call him out into the open? Is that why you volunteered?" he asked. "Or did you just do that out of the goodness of your heart?" he added with a smile. (It was meant as a quip; that much was obvious. And yet there seemed to be an unexpected sincerity to the man's voice, his eyes shining with barely concealed admiration like two unearthly sapphires in the dark of the night. As though he couldn't fully resist taking it more seriously than he was letting on.)

The Captain shrugged uncomfortably in response. "I just … did what I had to do," he replied, fiddling with the cigarette in his hand. "Time to light that thing, huh?" he added with an uncertain smile, starting to pat down his suit pockets again. "Where is that lighter Owen gave me?"

He located the misplaced item and pulled it out of his pocket, noticing how Jack's eyes seemed to widen fractionally at the sight of it, even if just for a split second.

It felt good to take a deep drag of smoke and blow it out again, eyes closed and head tilted backward. This way, he didn't have to see the picture of the skull and crossbones, that still made a sick panic churn in his stomach. This way, he could ignore the fact that there wasn't a single ripple disturbing the dead quiet of the Bay. This way, he could just smoke with abandon, avoiding to look at Jack, who …

"Disgusting habit!" Jack's amused voice interrupted his thoughts.

"What, smoking?" the Captain laughed, eyes snapping open in surprise.

"Yeah."

"You know, I think people who don't drink and smoke are suspicious. There's just something … off about them."

"Well, as long as I don't turn into a mustachioed vegetarian, I think you're safe," Jack shot back with a grin.

Despite his alleged disgust with smoking, the man seemed to be watching the Captain with intense fascination, his eyes never leaving the Captain's lips, pupils dilating every time he saw him suck on his cigarette. As though the way the Captain's cheeks hollowed were the most interesting thing in the world. As though it made Jack think of something, something that seemed to instill in him a deep hunger and need … But what that was was anyone's guess.

"Why did you join up?" Jack asked again quietly, his whisper a little rough around the edges.

The Captain thought of his dead mother, of the way the noise of war had burned the memory of her death out of his heart. But that wasn't all of it, was it? No, there had been other reasons too, powerful reasons.

"There … was this old man," he muttered and hesitated. "Amos. A neighbor of ours who lived across the road … He always used to say, 'If fate throws luck at ya, you've gotta give somethin' back!' … And it did … Fate, I mean. It did throw a lotta luck my way."

"Fate, huh," Jack said, quizzically raising one eyebrow.

"Or whatever you wanna call it. Providence … or … or … the universe … or …"

"God?" Jack prompted, his smile turning a tad sarcastic.

"Well, yes … maybe," the Captain replied defensively, slightly irritated at the condescension and ridicule directed at him.

For a moment, it looked as though Jack were considering replying to that, his smile turning half-pitiful and half-cruel. It seemed as if he were just searching for the right words to express himself, teeth worrying his bottom lip, eyes narrowed into two calculating slits. Then he had apparently made up his mind; he cleared his throat and …

Suddenly, the door to the tourist office swung open again, startling them both and revealing a politely smiling Ianto.

"Jack? Phone call for you."

"Thought I'd told you to deal with that?" Jack snapped, sounding slightly annoyed.

"I _did_. I've got rid of Paris for you," the young Welshman replied, seemingly not the least bit insulted and courteous as ever. "But there's another phone call for you. It's Bes. I think he wants to talk to you about–"

"I know," Jack sighed tiredly. "I'm coming."

Ianto just nodded and held the door, motioning for the two of them to go inside.

Jack was already through the door, and the Captain was about to follow him when he thought he saw something moving out of the corner of his eye. A human form, right above his head. He took a quick step back and looked up, but there was no one to be seen behind the railing atop the tourist office. Maybe it had been just his imagination …

"Coming?" he heard Jack's voice call out. (Ianto was still patiently holding the door.)

"Yeah."

Before following them inside, though, the Captain took one last drag from his cigarette and threw it into the water, watching the long arc of its lonely flight: a tiny red dot, glowing in the dark of the night, dropping toward the smooth surface of the Bay in a grandiose curve, fair and frightful like a burning plane, before finally plunging into the black stillness of the water.

* * *

 


	12. To let go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to stress again that this fic comes with a strong warning: there are references to wartime atrocities in this chapter that are graphic and potentially disturbing.

**12\. Chapter: To let go** Soundtrack: Harel Skaat "Milim"  
  
If there was one thing the Captain had learned since crossing the pond, it was that a person's native language was a powerful part of their identity and that there were times when it tended to surface, unannounced and unexpected.

One example was cursing.

No matter what language people were speaking in at a given time, they tended to spontaneously switch to their native one when bursting out swearing. He had witnessed it more than once with the French volunteers – even with the ones who had been pretty fluent in English: the scramble alarm would go off unexpectedly, and the pilot in question would fire off a barrage of colorful words toward the skies, all of them in his mother tongue … even if the man's _chère maman_ would have probably fainted at the use of such words.

(The Captain suspected that there was one other instance in which people automatically switched to their first language, but he had never been with a French or otherwise non-English-speaking girl and couldn't be sure about that.)

So, if it was a rule that people cursed in their native language, why didn't this apply to Jack?

It had happened on Sunday night: the Captain had been lying in bed already, listening to the soft sound of Jack's footsteps above his head. Apparently, the man had been pacing his office, unaware of his guest being awake, lost in deep thought. Then suddenly, there had been a loud crash that had sounded as though he had accidentally walked into and knocked over a chair.

The Captain had heard a sharp hiss of pain, subconsciously rubbing his own elbow and imagining the black and blue bruise that would undoubtedly start to form on the other man's arm. What was more curious, though, was what had happened about a split second later: the words had apparently slipped out of Jack's mouth without him realizing it. And not only was it unusual for the man to be cursing, it was also quite odd for him to be doing so in a language that didn't sound even remotely like English. For what the Captain had heard then was a subdued, half-suppressed exclamation in some language that he had never heard before.

It hadn't been French or German or Italian … or even Polish; he was certain of that, for the simple reason that he would have recognized it, seeing as he had heard its long, drawn-out vowels and soft sibilants more than just once, shouted across the airfield by brave young men, Polish pilots who had seemed so different from him and yet so close in their pain … No, whatever Jack had muttered there under his breath hadn't been Polish either; it hadn't been anything recognizable. Just a few strangely hoarse and guttural syllables that, to the Captain's untrained ear, had sounded like some ancient Oriental language, but probably hadn't been that either.

But Jack was American, wasn't he? No matter how long the Captain thought about it, he couldn't think of a reason why, in an unguarded moment, the man would spontaneously utter something in some completely alien language. Even days later, the Captain was still wondering what devil's tongue this had been. The question kept nagging at him constantly, remaining unanswered in the back of his mind.

Over the next few days, he started to learn more about the workings of Torchwood Three.

There was a strange comfort in the fact that every military base and every combat unit in the world seemed to run by a fixed set of rules – both official and unofficial ones. Rules he knew what to expect of; rules gave his body something to do and kept him from losing his mind. Rules provided some kind of glue or corset that kept everything from falling apart, a framework to each and every society in the world.  
  
At Torchwood, for example, there seemed to be a set order in which everyone turned up in the mornings. Ianto was always the first one to come into work. Every morning at 8:00 am sharp, not a minute earlier or later, the cog door alarm could be heard resounding throughout the Hub as the young man entered the main atrium, his suit always pressed, his smile always friendly yet unobtrusive, nothing too crass, nothing too loud; there was always something reserved about his demeanor, a professional to the core. The Captain, for his part, had begun to check the time whenever the young Welshman would walk through the door, and as it turned out, it was always at the exact moment that the big hand on the wall clock touched the twelve that the cog door would start to roll open. _'How the hell does he do that?'_ the Captain wondered. _'Does he time himself with a stopwatch or somethin'?'_

The second one to come into work was always Toshiko. Usually, she would arrive five to ten minutes after Ianto and would start "booting" some of the "computers" – at least that was what she called what she was doing. Then she would disappear into the kitchen to be handed a cup of freshly brewed coffee and the newspaper open to the Sudoku page, with one half of the strange puzzles already solved by Ianto and the other one still waiting to be filled in. (Not that the Captain knew what any of them were. In his opinion, they were a bit of a pointless exercise, a waste of precious time that could otherwise have been spent doing something useful and productive. But maybe, he was just too old-fashioned for that kind of thing …)  
  
Toshiko would be well into the second half of the page by the time the cog door alarm would sound again: it would blare out sometime between 8:15 and 8:30 am to announce Gwen, who always arrived with a story about how her fiancé had been snoring the entire night or how he had ruined all her shirts in the wash, leaving the Captain to wonder if she had expected anything else from a man.  
  
After 8:30, there would be a long pause.  
  
A very long pause.  
  
Owen's time of arrival was always hard to predict. The time at which the man could potentially turn up ranged from 9 to 11:45 am. And from what the others had told the Captain, thatwasn't, by far, the latest the doctor had ever come into work. Usually, he just stomped in, muttering to himself, hung over or in a bad mood (or both), and demanded that "someone" (i.e. Ianto) make him breakfast. As a rule, the mood evaporated once he was given some body part to cut up.

Another rule at Torchwood the Captain found out about pretty quickly was the fact that Jack was always already up when the Captain woke in the mornings – and that was despite the fact that the Captain had fallen into his military routine again and had begun to rise quite early himself.  
  
Jack just didn't seem to sleep all that much. He was always still awake, working quietly in his office, when the Captain closed his eyes in the evening and already up and running around the Hub when the Captain opened them again in the morning, not a trace of a pillow or blanket left on the couch on which Jack had undoubtedly spent the night.

Moreover, the Captain had started having strange dreams, dreams in which he saw the other man sitting beside his bed at night, reading a book or watching him sleep. In the morning, the Captain was never sure whether he should think of them as comforting dreams or disconcerting nightmares …  
  
It also became clear that Ianto's evening visits to Jack's office hadn't been an exception; they were a part of the two men's daily routine. Apparently, the two leaders of Torchwood Three used the evenings for long conversations about the day's events and their plans for the following day. And sometimes, those conversations would drift into more personal areas, to which the Captain would subsequently become an involuntary witness.

One of these conversations had gone along the following lines: Ianto had entered Jack's office and had announced, "Enough. You're phoning the Élysée Palace. Right this second!"

The Captain had heard Jack sigh at that. "Do I have to? I was just gonna ignore it all."

"The Foreign Secretary isn't going to risk a diplomatic fallout with France just because you can't bring yourself to–"

"I don't _want_ to!"

"You made your bed; now lie in it."

" _I_ didn't do anything. _She_ threw herself at me. It wasn't my fault. I barely got out of that conference room. I swear the woman is a man-eater."

"Can't I send you to one international conference without you embarrassing yourself?" Ianto had replied in a softer voice. "You shouldn't have just run off like that … Just tell her you're not interested. Otherwise she'll never stop ringing you."

"She's nuts."

"She's the President's wife, Jack … If you want to avoid a scandal, I suggest you either make it crystal clear to her that she's not welcome in your bed or you give in and … give her what she wants."

"She's not my type."

"Didn't know you _had_ a type," the Welshman had chuckled dryly.

"Oh, come on. You should know that I do."

It had been at this point that the Captain had quietly gotten out of bed and had made his way over to Jack's living room. (If this was where the conversation was going, then he really didn't want to be eavesdropping on it.)

The last words he had heard had been, "Please, Jack. Just give her a ring and tell her, 'No, thanks!' … The FCO is livid enough as it is – what with you trampling all over our bilateral relations with France by calling her husband names."

"I didn't mean it like that–"

"Oh, right! You meant 'high-heeled dwarf _'_ as a compliment!"

"You've got no idea. I've met high-heeled dwarves! On a dwarf planet in a giant galaxy cluster. They were the nicest people you–"

At that moment, the Captain had closed the door behind himself. He had grabbed a book from the shelf and had begun to read, freezing in Jack's old pajamas, distracted by all the strange objects in the man's living room, not really able to concentrate on the book in his hand, hoping to return to bed soon.

The well-thumbed tome in his hands had turned out to be Huxley's 'Brave New World', the fresh reviews of which he had seen in the papers just a few years ago. (He had somehow never gotten around to reading the thing.) But despite the novel sounding interesting, his thoughts had kept wandering away from the page he had been reading, off to the strange things Jack and Ianto had been discussing upstairs, to the eerie green skull on the door to the tourist office, to the way Jack's hand had accidentally grazed his ear earlier, to the man's enigmatic smiles and winks and …

The Captain had shaken himself out of his reverie then and had tried to focus on his reading again. _'Okay, where was I?_ … _Right! The Fertilizing room_ … _something about incubators and Epsilons_ … _What a strange and convoluted book!'_ At that he had yawned and almost fallen asleep. _'Would it be okay to return to the other room? Is Jack's conversation with Ianto already over? Oh, right_ … _I should probably get back to readin' this,'_ the Captain had realized, diving back into his book, only to let his mind wander again moments later.

In the end, he hadn't even finished page three of the novel.

But from then on, this was another rule for the Captain: whenever he would hear Ianto enter Jack's office, whenever the two of them would start one of their conversations about planets and politics, comets and conferences, Area 51, the Large Hadron Collider, invitations to the Paranal Observatory, and other completely absurd things, the Captain would quietly get out of bed and slink off to Jack's living room to read some more pages in Huxley's disturbing dystopia.  
  
Another rule that established itself over the next few days was that everyone took to calling him 'Captain'.

The Captain himself wasn't even sure who had started it, but suddenly everyone was doing it. Maybe they all just felt strange about calling two people by the same first name. But somehow, he suspected that it was Owen who was behind it. The way the doctor grinned every time he said it was telling. Apparently, he was just doing it to annoy Jack. (Not that Jack seemed particularly annoyed, but Owen appeared to be enjoying the fact that he could call someone else 'Captain' in his boss's presence.)

From there, it had kind of stuck. They were all calling him 'Captain' now, and to him, it had started to feel more like a nickname than anything even remotely resembling an actual rank.

With him and Jack, it was more complicated, though. Sharing the same first name, they generally just avoided addressing each other at all, which somehow only served to exacerbate the tension between them.

Another rule was broken shortly after that first Sunday the Captain had spent at the Hub: Ianto, with whom he hadn't exchanged a single word up until then, addressed him for the very first time.  
  
It happened on Monday morning. Everyone was sitting in the conference room – except for Jack, who was currently making phone calls in his office – when Ianto walked in and set a tray with a hearty breakfast in front of the Captain. Then the young Welshman suddenly raised his fist to his mouth and gave a short dry cough, which prompted everyone to raise their heads in surprise. "I have looked into a few flats for you, sir," he announced. "And I think I have found a suitable one. It's in walking distance of the Hub, only a few minutes away from Owen's place. I thought he could pick you up and walk you to the Hub the first couple of times. I'll see to it that it will be ready for you to move in within the next few days."  
  
The Captain quickly gulped down his hot coffee. "Thank you," he replied, really meaning it. "That's real nice of you. But there's no need to be callin' me 'sir'. I mean, we're probably almost the same age, right?" He gave Ianto a warm smile, almost adding, _'And you're practically my boss now.'_  
  
The young man just raised an eyebrow, giving him a blank stare, then turned and left the room without so much as saying another word, empty tray in hand.  
  
As soon as the door had closed behind him, Gwen hissed, "You can't just tell Ianto not to call you 'sir'."  
  
 _'Right_ … _Every place has its own unwritten rules,'_ the Captain remembered.  
  
From the corner of his eye, he could see Toshiko nod. "Ianto will drop the 'sir' when _he_ thinks the time is right … It took him months to switch from 'sir' to 'Jack'."  
  
"And we all remember when _that_ happened," Owen muttered nastily. "Trust me, Captain, you wouldn't want that," he added with a derisive snort, which, for some reason, earned him sharp looks from both girls. No one seemed too eager to elaborate on his comment, though, and the topic was dropped.

When Gwen and Owen were leaving the conference room, the Captain overheard the doctor mutter, "Tosh, you can play history teacher for the Captain today. I'm busy."

"Since when are _you_ busy?" Gwen laughed.

"Ianto's scheduled a video conference for me. With someone from UNIT … Dr. Martha Jones, an old friend of Jack's, apparently. I don't really know why we would need an outsider on the Copley case. But if that's what Jack wants …" Owen shrugged. "Bet she's a total bore, though … I'd really rather be your history teacher for today, mate," he added with a cordial nod in the Captain's direction.

"I think we'll somehow manage without you," Toshiko muttered quietly, just the slightest hint of sarcasm in her voice.

"Yeah! … _You_ explain Pearl Harbor to him. You'll be _much_ better at that than I ever could," Owen snapped, beady black eyes sparkling evilly in his pale skull-like face.

"That's racist, and you know it!" Toshiko shot back icily.

"Oh, come on, Tosh. Don't be so bloody thin-skinned. It was a _joke_."

At that, Gwen chipped in from across the table. "Tosh is right. That was completely out of line. If you don't watch it, you'll end up getting fired before you turn thirty-five. You know, we're all fed up with your sexist, racist, hom–"

" _Fired?!_ " the doctor snorted. "I'll be _dead_ long before I turn thirty-five … Oh, come on, don't look so shocked. You know the statistics just as well as I do."

"Nonsense," Gwen replied, a slight trace of uncertainty in her wavering voice. "No one will be dead … Come on, let's get you to your video date with this UNIT woman. I'll help you explain about the Pharm … Tosh, will you be okay giving this history lesson?"

"Yep."

And at that, the Captain was left alone with Toshiko.

"So, what was that about Pearl Harbor?" he asked, setting his empty coffee cup aside.

The petite woman cast him a sidelong glance that was hard to decipher. "Only a few months after you'd left the scene, American soldiers became a common sight over here."

"How did _that_ happen?" the Captain asked in surprise. "When I joined up, volunteering wasn't exactly easy for someone from a neutral country."

"I'll explain in a moment," she replied quietly. "We've divided the time since 1941 into three periods of roughly twenty years each … Jack and Ianto have other things to deal with. So, it's just going to be Gwen, Owen, and me … Let's hope we can give you a glimpse into the history of the last few decades."

"Okay." The Captain smiled at her encouragingly.

But the Japanese woman looked away, slightly biting her bottom lip. Then she cleared her throat. "We're going to have to talk about the war," she announced eventually.

"Yeah, sure," he replied, not really seeing what the problem was. He was eager to find out what had happened after he had made his involuntary exit just a few days ago and couldn't understand why she seemed so reluctant to tell him about it.

"It's not an easy topic."

"Yeah, I know. I was there," he said simply. He wasn't bragging; it was just the truth.

"Not where the– It's a long story," she whispered. "But you deserve to know. It's part of who you are … what you fought for … what you … what you died for – well, almost, at least."

The Captain swallowed, feeling a bit uneasy, and nodded silently.  
  
And then Toshiko started talking …

Standing at the end of the conference table in front of the huge screen that was mounted to the wall, she was speaking in a quiet, but firm voice. Like someone who knew exactly what was coming next. Like someone who didn't want to say what had to be said …

As it turned out, she was very knowledgeable about the topic, not even looking at the screen while flicking through the pictures she was showing him and reciting most of the names and dates by heart as though someone had just recently talked to her about it … a history teacher maybe or an elderly relative.

Every once in a while, the Captain interrupted her lecture to ask her about one picture or another.

"Wait, could you show me that last one again? What Spitfire variant was that?"

"I … don't know. Let me check." She flicked back and scrolled down the page. "It says here: it's a … er … Mk IX. Whatever that means …"

"Must've been introduced after I left," the Captain muttered under his breath.

"Do you want me to search for a clip of this?"

"A– ?"

"A film clip. I thought you might be interested in seeing the thing in action. I could try to find something for you."

"Please do."

He wasn't even sure if it was the purring sound of the plane's engine or the fact that he could almost feel the smooth painted surface of its wings under his palms, taste the freedom of the cool breeze on his tongue, smell the oily, greasy scent of smoke and metal, sense the powerful thrumming of the whole magnificent beast with every fiber of his body … he wasn't sure what it was, but the moment the elegant craft soared across the screen in the grainy black-and-white film sequence Toshiko was showing him, the Captain felt the hairs rise on his forearms and his throat constrict with a strange mix of awe and anticipation and anxiety and excitement and euphoria and pain …

The only thing he managed to say, though, was a hoarse, muttered, "Damn!"

"You seem impressed," Toshiko remarked over the sound of the Spit's engine, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Looks like I missed out on the best part of the war."

"I doubt that," she replied quietly and plowed on with her lecture.

It was surprising how well-informed she was, considering her young age. She was answering his questions with a precision that made him wonder where she had learned about all these things so far in the past. It was equally unexpected and astonishing, and he listened to her with bated breath, barely daring to interrupt when he found something too bizarre to be true.

"Shortly after you had left, Hitler's deputy got on a plane to cross the Channel–"

"Don't tell me he disappeared too!" the Captain exclaimed.

"What? Why?" Toshiko asked flabbergasted.

"Nothing," he muttered. "Just seems to be a recurring pattern around these parts."

"No, actually, he landed somewhere in Scotland."

"In the middle of the war? Was he crazy?"

"There is some speculation about that," Toshiko admitted with a small shrug, diving back into her tale once more.

Only a few minutes later, the astonished Captain interrupted her again.

"And then the Germans attacked the Soviet Union–"  
  
"Now, that can't be right! They're allies," he exclaimed, slipping into the present tense without even noticing it.  
  
"It's what happened," Toshiko insisted.  
  
"Look, are you sure about this? I mean, you weren't there and–"  
  
"It's history, Captain. It happened. Everybody knows that," she replied quietly.

He shook his head in bewilderment.

When Toshiko resumed her story, he learned that his country had eventually joined the war effort, a powerful wave of new emotions flooding him. To be sure, the footage of Pearl Harbor was disturbing, and he was gaping at it in horror the moment it appeared on screen. But then, there was so much more … A strange elation and anxiety, tension, trepidation and pride, making his heart clench tightly in his chest. His country had made the right decision, a decision he had made a long time ago. And it had happened only a few months after he had left. In the course of that same year, as a matter of fact. Had he stayed there, he would have seen it with his own eyes. He wouldn't have been the stranger fighting another country's war anymore. _'It would have been our war,'_ he realized, a sharp pang of regret knifing through him. _'But you couldn't have stayed,'_ a voice in the back of his mind reminded him. _'You died on that day, in that dogfight.'_ And yet he hadn't … It was enough to make one's brain hurt.

"Soon much of the world was involved in the war," Toshiko said. And from there, all hell broke loose …

What the Captain got to see now was shocking, to say the least: all those pictures and film clips were getting to him badly. Maybe it was all just a history lesson to this young girl. But to him, the footage felt more real than the here and now – could sitting in an underground base, surrounded by dinosaurs and extraterrestrials, ever feel real? – and he felt himself flinch whenever a ship, house or plane exploded on the screen right in front of his eyes, half-expecting an alarm to go off somewhere, an air raid siren that would force the two of them to run for shelter …

But nothing happened.

Toshiko, for her part, remained as quiet and focused as ever, even with all the explosions and fires raging in front of her. She was a picture of absolute stillness, while, at the same time, commanding the chaos with a flick of her hand, opening up Pandora's box with a few keystrokes and releasing a screaming, too-bright reality of ideas that seemed more real to him than the shadowy world in this cave, to the walls of which the Torchwood team members were chained like prisoners.

Only a few minutes later, it became clear why the young woman was so familiar with the events of World War II.  
  
She was explaining something about U-boats when he interrupted her, "But we couldn't have known from which direction the Germans–"

"Oh, but we could–" she exclaimed gleefully.  
  
"What? How?!"  
  
"We were sort of … listening to their every word. We managed to break the Enigma code."  
  
"I thought it was impossible to crack?"

"As a mathematician, I can assure you it wasn't," she replied, giving him a look that was nothing short of triumphant, a strange pride flickering in her dark eyes. And then she started telling him about something called 'Bletchley Park' …

"I had _no_ idea," he whispered eventually. "And you'd think I should've at least heard some rumors …"

"It was a military secret," she reminded him proudly. As it turned out, her grandfather had worked at Bletchley Park, and it was to him that she owed what she knew about the war.

"He was roughly your age back then … bit younger even."  
  
The Captain just stared at her.

It was hard to believe. This young woman standing in front of him was the granddaughter of someone who was his age … in a sense, at least.

"We couldn't have done it without you," she continued, beaming up at him in awe. "Without people like you and him, I mean … It's because of you that we've won. Because of all those young brave men who weren't scared to do the right thing and–"

"You think we weren't scared?!" the Captain interrupted her, the memory of his fight with Jack suddenly flashing behind his eyes, the memory of that argument they had had on that stairwell at the Ritz … just a few days ago … And for some reason, he could see it all clearly now: maybe it was the dogfight and his almost-death and rescue by spaceship, but something had changed, something had served as a catharsis for him, something had washed this acknowledgment ashore, because suddenly he heard himself say, "'Cause we _were_ scared, you know. All of us. _Not_ bein' scared would've been crazy … It's the fear that keeps you fast, keeps you on your toes … You just have to take it and … and saddle it and ride it out, play with it, dance with it, cherish it, know it and, eventually, call it out by its name."

Now Toshiko was staring at him wide-eyed. "It's just that you seem so … fearless," she stammered.

"I was scared every single time, Miss Sa– Toshiko. Every single time," he said simply, his voice steady and his eyes fixed on her. "It didn't get any easier."

"But you did it anyway," she whispered.

"We did it anyway."

  
ΨΨΨ

  
Lunch was a quiet affair for the Captain.

Somehow it was hard to dig in as greedily as the others (and particularly Owen) when all that was on your mind were images of aircraft going up in flames and cities being bombed to ashes. He listlessly chewed on his pizza slice, not really paying attention to the other team members' conversation. (Jack was nowhere to be seen; according to Ianto, he was still working in his office.)

"Owen's fallen in lo-ove … Owen's fallen in lo-ove," Gwen was sing-songing around a huge bite of pizza.

"That's _not_ true! I didn't say that," the doctor spluttered in protest.

"You said she was hot," Gwen reminded him.

Toshiko grinned. "So, she wasn't a 'total bore'?" she asked, making air quotes with her hands.

Owen didn't react to that. "Should have known it," he muttered pensively, chewing on his pizza slice. "After all, this is an old friend of Jack's we're talking about. _Of course_ she's hot! Knowing Jack, he's probably bonked her."

"And here I thought this video conference was about the dead bodies we've found and this mysterious Pharm research institution," Ianto sighed quietly to himself. "Did you even try to do what was assigned to you?"

Owen just rolled his eyes at that. "Yes, _mum!_ … It's just … a bloke's bound to notice … (Well, maybe not _you_.) But she _is_ bloody gorgeous. Aaaand she's clever–"

"Yeah, like you really care about _that_!" Toshiko interrupted him.

" _Aaaand_ she's a doctor," Owen continued undeterred.

"See? You _do_ fancy her!" Gwen pointed out with a mischievous, gap-toothed smile.

"That's not what I said. I just think she's really fit … She's going to need a place to stay at when she comes over from London. I wondered if she could just stay at my–"

"No," Ianto interrupted him quietly, carefully dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "Doctor Jones is going to stay at _our_ place; Jack's already decided that. This way, she'll have some company as she waits for Copley's people to ring her. Besides, your flat is a tip, Owen!"

"Awww, now you've hurt poor little Owen's feelings," Gwen teased wickedly, which earned her a slap on the forearm from the fuming doctor.

"Look, all I'm saying is: a classy bird like her would probably rather spend her time with someone who actually appreciates her. Right, Captain?"

Owen's voice tore the Captain out of his dark thoughts for a second. "Huh?"

But before he could think of anything to say in reply, Ianto had already started shaking his head. "Owen, this would just be Diane all over again. And who knows if you'd just end up hurt by a Weevil this time or if you'd wind up dead …"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. I'm going to be fine," the doctor grumbled. "Why can't you just accept that I find her– But what am I expecting from someone who's nuts about George Clooney?!"

"Boys, boys, tone it down, will you?" Gwen interjected in an attempt to calm the situation.

Ianto, for his part, remained silent, just throwing the doctor a stern, reproving look. Then finally, he cleared his throat. "Strike one!"

Owen's face fell. "Oh, _come on_."

"Jack knows what he's doing, Owen," Ianto continued calmly while the Captain was still trying to figure out what would happen at strike three. "He said Doctor Jones was going to be staying with me, so that's what's going to happen. End of discussion. It's not like any of the rooms at the Hub are presentable anyway … The only habitable room around here is currently occupied."

"I could always move out," the Captain suggested, having finally caught up with the discussion.

"That won't be necessary, sir," Ianto replied politely.

From there, the conversation drifted off to other topics, and the Captain stopped paying attention once again, returning to his earlier train of thoughts.

"It's the rain," he could vaguely hear Owen say. "It makes the Weevils crawl out of their shitholes."

Across from them, Toshiko was shaking her head. "If that were the explanation for the recent increase in Weevil activity, then there'd be hordes of them roaming the streets right now, seeing as it's pouring down today … No, I don't think it's the weather they're reacting to."

The four team members continued arguing for a while, their voices merging into an indistinguishable buzz in the Captain's ears. How could they take these extraterrestrials so seriously when there were wars going on in the world? (Because there were, weren't there?) These monsters couldn't possibly be more horrifying than exploding planes and burning houses, could they? So then why were they all excitedly swapping theories about these Weevils' behavior as if their life depended on it?

The Captain put down his barely touched slice of pizza and looked over to the door, suddenly realizing that he wished that Jack were here.

The man had said he had lived through the entire war, hadn't he? Through the fires and flames. Through the wailing sirens in the dark of night. Through the flashing lights and the screams and the smell of smoke and burnt flesh clinging to each and every crease of one's clothes. Through the taste of ashes in the air and the paralyzing pain of helplessness. Through the demonic howl of the Stukas and the naked, murderous hatred directed at them. A hatred that, in its rawness, showed that one was possessed by the roaring, bloodthirsty beast of war … Jack had lived through all that, hadn't he? He would understand … He would know, without asking, what was distracting the Captain from the buzz of the conversation in the room; he would recognize the deafening horror piercing the Captain's soul.

 

  
ΨΨΨ

  
After the others had left, Toshiko switched the strange big monitor back on.

"So, Jack wasn't hungry, was he?" the Captain inquired, watching his newly-found history teacher sort through something that she called "files" on the screen.

"Oh, he's probably had lunch in his office," she replied distractedly. "He does that sometimes. He's … very busy. We try to accept that he doesn't always tell us what he's up to, that he just needs some space sometimes … We really do," she added as though to convince herself. "All of us."  
  
"Even Owen?" the Captain asked, remembering the conversation he had had with the man the day before.

"Even Owen," Toshiko confirmed. "Well, of course, we're all curious about Jack's background and all of that," she admitted with a sheepish smile and a shrug. "But these days, there is a kind of cease-fire between him and us: we don't pester him with questions anymore, and he doesn't discourage us from speculating. Mostly, we just accept that not everything is our business. Even Owen understands that now. He's changed a lot since Jack came back. You've got no idea how aggressive he used to be before Jack disappeared. But then he started blaming Jack's disappearance on the fact that he had shot Jack in the–" Suddenly, she clapped her small white hand over her mouth, eyes going wide.  
  
"Owen did what?"

This had to be some kind of mistake. It couldn't possibly be true, could it?

"Look, I probably shouldn't have told you this. Can we just pretend it didn't happen and get on with our–"

"Owen shot Jack?!"

"Yes," Toshiko sighed. "It happened shortly after Jack and I had returned from … from 1941, shortly after Ianto had sho– You know … I don't want to talk about this," she whispered. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"Okay," the Captain agreed quietly, not really being one for prying, yet still wondering what it was that was going on here at Torchwood.

"Right," she coughed, adjusting her glasses on her nose. "Let's get back to what we were talking about." Her voice had adopted a more business-like tone again, that, to the Captain's ears, sounded almost convincing – almost. "We're lagging behind quite a bit as it is. I'm not sure how we're supposed to cover the entire time span up to the mid-sixties today when we're not even finished with the war yet."  
  
And from there, she jumped headfirst into the next topic.

The Captain had thought he knew war, knew all its horrors and atrocities, all its tragedies and its ultimate futility. But this was something else, an entirely different war from the one he had fought in. Now he understood why, at first, Toshiko had been so reluctant to tell him about it.

As he watched the pictures flash across the screen, he felt himself being seized by a sudden onslaught of panic, a cold, paralyzing horror that kept whispering, _"It's not true; it can't be," _as though his brain were unable to fully process what his eyes were seeing …

There were dead bodies and strangely contorted, frozen body parts, lying in the snow like sculptures cut out of wood, carved by the hand of an ingenious and infinitely evil master, their dirty, grayish color a stark contrast against the white shroud wrapping them.

There were bodies, hanging from trees and lamp posts, partisans executed in acts of revenge, swaying stiffly in the harsh wind, that seemed to be the only friend bemoaning their fate.

There were long lines of women, standing in front of dug-out holes, naked and freezing, their terrified eyes anticipating the fall, the tumble into the pit, headfirst and bone on bone, their hair in a wild, tangled disarray, their faces etched with fear and horror and humiliation, desperately clutching their screaming toddlers to their bared breasts, children who would see no tomorrow, who would never grow up.

There were mass graves filled with bodies, thousands of entwined arms and legs dropped in hapless heaps … The Captain shuddered at the disturbing, almost perverse sight of three soldiers standing at the foot of one of those graves, their faces relaxed with a calm look of proud accomplishment, one of them leaning on a spade with a content smile, the second one apparently taking a little break, smoking and chatting with the third one, who was staring at his feet, unhappy with the mud that had got on his spit-polished boots.

There were toothless old men and children with their hands over their heads, being rounded up by soldiers, who were poking them in the back with their rifles.

There were pictures of a village, the church set ablaze and the streets eerily silent …

All the things Toshiko was telling him – all those facts about the Battle of Stalingrad, the siege of Leningrad and the resulting famine, about the war against the partisans in Greece, Yugoslavia, Italy and countless other places, about the massacres in Poland, the exploitation of forced laborers and the slaughter and starvation of prisoners of war – all these words were just washing over the Captain, and suddenly, he heard himself whisper, "This … cannot be true!"

"The war in the East was a different kind of war, Captain," she replied quietly.

And then she moved on to yet another topic.

He had heard rumors, of course, whispers about what was going on there, far away, on the continent. Something that didn't exactly have anything to do with the war. Something that he had heard refugees talk about, if only in hushed tones: torture and killings and arrests and ghettos … But he hadn't expected this, couldn't have foreseen the horror of this modern inquisition, of this medieval madness …

And the pictures that were flashing across the screen now weren't merely horrifying or shocking anymore. No, what he was seeing now was beyond comprehension:

The skeleton-like people behind the barbed wire. The piles of emaciated dead bodies, limbs stacked on top of one another like sticks. The sight of living, breathing human beings that had been subjected to medical experiments. The sickly sight of pinkish-green skin, discolored by the gas chambers …

It was at this point that the Captain excused himself, leaping to his feet and leaving the room. Only a few moments later, he was standing in the men's room, one arm braced against the tiled wall, choking, retching, unable to throw up, his shoulders heaving, his head spinning as though it were about to explode.

Back then, a lifetime ago, after he had shot down his first German, he had thrown up violently behind the barracks. They all had. It was normal, almost a rite of passage. He had felt the splintered wood of the barrack wall against his palm, and soon a sense of relief had flooded him. Later, he had washed away the vile taste with some whiskey and had felt it burn down his throat and esophagus, a slight, barely noticeable burn that had never really gone away, but had made him feel better …

This time, there was no relief, no escape from what he had seen, nothing he could do to get away from it.

When he finally opened the bathroom door again, Ianto was standing in front of him, a glass of water in his raised hand, calm, waiting, then nodding silently as the Captain tried to thank him and disappearing in the depths of the Hub again.  
  
The Captain gulped down the water, the slippery glass almost falling out of his hand, the sound of Owen and Gwen's laughter from the main atrium washing over him like an ice-cold wave. (Wasn't it absurd that there was still laughter in this world? How did they all live, knowing _this_ had happened? Was it just some far-away story to them? Sad? Yes. Regrettable? Yes. But definitely not worth brooding over? Was it that?)

"Hey …"

It was Jack's soft voice.

The man was strolling down the darkened corridor toward the Captain, his casual body language saying, _"What a coincidence to meet you here,"_ when it was in fact obvious that he was coming from the direction Ianto had just left in. "How's the history lesson going?"

Even in the dim light, the Captain could make out the spark of concern in those alert blue eyes that betrayed the fact that this question was code for, _"Are you all right?"_

"It's … interesting," he replied, quickly drinking down the rest of the water.

There was another burst of laughter from the main atrium, an almost surreal sound, drifting over to them like a soap bubble, then popping right above their heads. To the Captain, it seemed as if it were a comment to what he had just said, an indication of how absurd his statement had been.

"Yeah, it really is," Jack agreed. And suddenly, there it was, in his eyes, in his face, in his posture, as clear as day: the unspoken sentence, _"I understand."_ This man knew, knew what it had been like, knew the pain and the fear, knew the suffering and despair, felt, as deeply as the Captain did, the ultimate emptiness of a life scarred by war. And he was communicating it with his eyes, sending out a wave of warmth and understanding and a deep tenderness that was almost too intense to bear.

The Captain fiddled with the empty glass in his hands, unsure where to put it.

"It's okay," he heard Jack whisper, but it wasn't clear whether the man meant this thing the Captain was going through or the empty glass he had, with these words, taken from the Captain's hand.

"It's just …" The Captain cleared his throat. "At the pace we're goin' …"

He saw his mistake immediately: Jack's eyebrows shot up, clearly misinterpreting what the Captain was trying to say.

"Toshiko and I," the Captain clarified quickly. "At the pace Toshiko and I are goin', we won't address all the topics she thought we'd have covered by the end of the day. I doubt we'll even get to World War III today."

To the Captain's surprise, the other man's eyebrows shot up even higher at that. "World War III?"

"Yeah." What was so strange about that? Two world wars had already happened over the course of his young life, one following hot on the heels of the other. It was only logical to assume that the third one had broken out shortly after that, wasn't it?

Jack gave him a strange look. "World War III hasn't happened … yet," he said quietly and averted his gaze, staring into the darkness of the Hub.

"Well, it wasn't a far-fetched idea," the Captain muttered. "I mean, humanity seems to be constantly on the brink of self-destruction."

"Hey, don't knock humanity, soldier," Jack warned with a little smile, still not looking up. "I happen to think it's unique and worth dying for every single time."

"Kinda hard to believe," the Captain pointed out bitterly, trying very hard to banish the images from earlier from his mind. "I thought you people dealt with extraterrestrials and those kinda things?" he added after a short pause. "Aren't there … aren't there any planets out there with civilizations that aren't as broken as ours? Civilizations that have this whole living-in-peace-and-prosperity thing figured out? … _Actually_ intelligent life!"

The Captain hadn't expected a response to his outburst, but to his surprise, Jack's head shot up as if on cue. There was a strangely forlorn expression on the man's face. (What were these shadows that were darkening his eyes like clouds passing across two suns? What far-away places were there behind the distant horizon of his pupils? What inner landscapes? What rugged coastlines were there engraved in his retinas? What seas were rushing in his ears? What voices were etched in his brain? What salty smells? What sweetish tastes? What light? What skies? What loneliness?)

Maybe it was just that the things he had been shown today were starting to get to him, but the yearning for this man in front of him suddenly exploded in the Captain's brain like a blinding, skull-splitting pain, and he could barely restrain himself from grabbing him by the back of his neck with one rough movement of his hand and pressing his lips to this mouth, from pushing his tongue into it, from shouting into it, _"Call me by my name and tell me what you felt when you first killed someone. Because you did kill, didn't you? (We all did. And not just once.) I can see it in your eyes!"_

Instead he just rubbed the back of his own neck, feeling the pain of exhaustion in his spine, feeling his entire frame thrum, every taut tendon, every single muscle, feeling this yearning, this sinister, baneful yearning, claw at his insides.

"You should get back to your lesson," Jack's voice said hoarsely somewhere beside his head. "Don't keep Tosh waiting."

And then, without a backward glance, the mysterious man walked away down the gloomy underground corridor.

 

ΨΨΨ

 

Toshiko was waiting for the Captain with a look of genuine compassion on her face. And just as he had predicted, there was a calm on her delicate features that showed what she was thinking: that this was all very sad and depressing, but, nonetheless, far away in the past and not worth getting gray hair over.

If it had been Gwen, he probably would have been asked if he was okay. But this was Toshiko, and she seemed a bit uncomfortable with the whole thing and not really good with words. It wasn't that she was cruel or lacked any empathy; it was just that she was watching him with her big brown eyes, watching him as if he were some hurt animal that she didn't know how to help or what to say to. And so they continued with their lesson …

When they finally came to the point where Hitler had shot himself, the Captain had already reached a state of such emotional numbness that he was unable to feel any happiness about it or to even point out that he had always assumed the man would try to escape responsibility in such a way.  
  
And he didn't feel a thing, not a single thing, when Toshiko showed him the triumphant headlines in the May issues of many newspapers around the globe celebrating the end of the war in Europe in '45. Even the sight of those laughing soldiers dancing in the streets didn't move him. They were men like him, men who had gone through what he had and who were now over the moon. And yet there was nothing in his heart, no joy, no relief, nothing at all … He was staring at their photographs with a hollow feeling in his stomach.  
  
It was well into the evening when he finally found himself objecting to something again. And that was when Toshiko told him about Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

"One bomb did that? But … that's impossible," he protested feebly.

"An atomic bomb can kill 100,000 people in a split second," Toshiko disagreed quietly.

The Captain stared at the pictures on the screen. "But that's … that's …"

"Horrible? Yes," she whispered. "But it's what defines our world today …"

"Makes it even harder to believe that World War III hasn't broken out yet."

Toshiko shrugged. "I think they've got agreements and treaties in place for that."

"Are you tellin' me that a world that looked on as people were incinerated in ovens will be stopped by a piece of paper?" he asked, feeling a sickly burning in the pit of his stomach again.

At this moment, the door opened and Ianto walked in, a cup of tea in his hand, and set it in front of the Captain, who immediately felt the calming effect of its soothing scent on his shattered nerves. Maybe the British were right about tea being the ultimate remedy to any ailment, he pondered as he sipped at the warm liquid, feeling it settle his stomach a little.

"Well, at least diplomacy has managed to avert World War III for the last few decades," Toshiko pointed out, resuming their discussion.

At that, Ianto looked up at the screen with the picture of the mushroom cloud on it, questioningly raising one eyebrow. "You know," he said with a neutral expression, "some do argue that it wasn't diplomacy that did that … There is … There is this notion that the more countries acquire nuclear weapons, the less likely it is that one of them will get launched. You won't attack someone if you know what the answer would be. No one's that keen on self-destruction."

The Captain set down his cup. "Would you wanna bet your life on that?"

 

  
ΨΨΨ

 

  
When they all turned up for dinner, it got more lively around the conference table again.

"What do you mean you only got to the end of the war, Tosh?" Owen barked. "What the hell were you doing all these hours? Explaining the intricacies of nuclear physics?"

"How about you do it yourself next time?" Toshiko bristled.

But soon enough, they were all laughing, joking and eating again.

Jack had resurfaced from his office and was telling some funny story about how he had had a phone call from Egypt today asking him to come to a conference on alien involvement in the erection of the pyramids, to which he had apparently replied, "What erection now?" … something Ianto didn't look too happy about.

The Captain retired to Jack's bedroom pretty early, not feeling very hungry, pain raging in his back and surging up toward his head. Even the thought of food seemed unbearable somehow, and the long hours he had spent sitting down hadn't really helped either. He just really wanted to stretch his long legs and then lie down and forget …

As he got up and made his way over to the door, rubbing the back of his neck, he realized that they were all staring at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jack cast him a worried glance. It was obvious that the man was about to leap to his feet and follow him, but then Ianto laid a calming hand on his boss's forearm and whispered something into his ear. The Captain knew he should probably feel grateful to the young Welshman for this, but somehow, he couldn't bring himself to feel even that.

It was only later when he was already shedding his clothes and stepping into the shower that he felt the numbness in his head fade away. And as the first drops of water hit his skin, he suddenly felt something burst in his chest, an iron fist clenching around his heart. The intensity of it shocked him, and he had to catch himself on the wall to keep himself from falling, water pelting down on his body like hail. He was shaking badly and it hurt to breathe. (Were those even breaths he was taking? Or were those violent, tearless sobs, hurting his chest and lungs?)

If only he could have cried!

But he couldn't. There was no escape from this thing …

He had no idea when he had last been able to cry. As a kid when his mother had died? He couldn't remember …

He was bracing himself against the wall so fiercely now that he could feel his biceps twitch under his skin.

Another breath and another one … painful, ragged breaths … harsh and uneven … It was a pain around which his body was trying not to collapse, a pain that took everything and wouldn't even give the mercy of tears in return.

He didn't know what it meant.

It wasn't pain for the men who had died. Neither for the ones he had known, nor for the ones he hadn't. He had seen too much for that. And it wasn't pain for the cities destroyed or the children lying dead in some ditch somewhere. It wasn't for anyone in those pictures he had seen today. Or for anything he had experienced since joining up. Nothing as simple as that.  
  
It felt more primal, an inner scream erupting silently from his aching lungs as he heaved ragged breaths and coughed from the water getting into his sore throat, a scream without sound, yet coarse on his tongue. It wasn't just sadness or grief; it was a feeling of bone-deep desperation. A sense of loss he couldn't begin to describe.

The plunge into eternal fire. The burning flower of torment inside of him. The helplessness in his trembling heart, that made him clench his fist and pound the tiles until his knuckles felt sore and red.  
  
And then suddenly, he knew what it was.  
  
He had no chance of ever getting back to 1941. And as irrational as that seemed, at that very moment, he wanted nothing more than that.  
  
It was this feeling of helplessness at having a stranger open a history textbook in front of him, at having to be told what had happened after he had left. This sudden, overwhelming knowledge that he would never be able to go back. This gruesome experience of having to let go. To let go of the one true purpose in one's life. This agonizing pain of guilt over having left it in the hands of his men.

It had been his war too. And now, he would never, ever be able to celebrate its end. Now he would never feel any happiness or joy about it. He had been cheated out of that by fate. Now the only thing that was left was the sharp knowledge that whenever he would think of the end of World War II, there would be this emptiness, this hollow numbness in his chest, this grief for something he had been denied, for a time not experienced, for a purpose not served and a life never lived.

  
ΨΨΨ

  
That night, the Captain had a strange dream.  
  
 _He was standing on the airfield, his men playing chess nearby, laughing and listening to some record on the portable phonograph, waiting for the next alarm to go off, all of them, when someone suddenly tapped him on the shoulder and he felt a small parcel being placed in his hand. "From Germany," the man who had brought the parcel said.  
  
And suddenly, the Captain was completely alone on that airfield, his men having dissolved in the cold light of the winter sun. His friend, the wind, was howling across the empty runway, tugging at his uniform and hair.  
  
He looked down at the parcel in his hand. 'It's over!' someone had written on the brown packing paper in a clear, firm hand. With a sudden impatience, the Captain tore it open, something gray beginning to trickle out of it _ … _a fine gray powder_ … _'Ashes!' he realized with a sickening feeling in his stomach. Ashes, horrifying in their cold finality._

 _And there was something else too_ … _something_ … _  
  
Hidden deep in the gray powder, cushioned and partially covered by it, there lay a cut-off finger.  
  
"No!" he cried out as the ashes started to swirl in the wind like sand. "No. No. No."  
  
The wind had picked up the brown paper and was carrying it away, down the runway, the words 'It's over!' flashing in front of the Captain's eyes for one last time. At that moment, he suddenly noticed that the record they had been listening to earlier hadn't stopped playing. Piano music _ … _A sad and hauntingly beautiful tune he couldn't quite place_ …  
  
He woke up with a start, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. But there was no disorientation, no second of confusion this time, just this strange sense of finality settling in his heart. The dream had been nightmarishly bizarre and oddly calming at the same time.

 _'1:30 am,'_ he realized after a brief glance at the clock.  
  
Strangely enough, there was no light trickling in through the open hatch, no sound of rustling paper or a creaking chair that would have indicated that Jack was working upstairs.

 _'No. No, the office is empty.'_ The Captain was suddenly sure of it.

Lying in bed, in the dark of Jack's bedroom, he wondered where the other man could have gone. The Hub around him was absolutely quiet, as if lying dormant, no pterodactyl cries, no whispering, no beeping or whirring sounds, nothing.  
  
He was about to get up when he suddenly heard the upstairs door open oh-so-quietly.

Then there were soft, yet sure footsteps crossing the office, and the Captain instantly recognized Jack's fast stride. A faint rustle indicated that the other man was taking off his greatcoat now in order to hang it up. The Captain could suddenly smell the scent of rain drifting in from above, the scent of heavy, sodden wool.  
  
 _'He's been outside,'_ the Captain realized with a shiver. _'Alone, outside in the rain, in the middle of the night.'_  
  
To his surprise, he suddenly heard a low, barely audible sigh coming from upstairs, sadness flooding through him, a sadness as deep and cold and dark as the sea. And for some irrational reason, he couldn't help thinking that Jack and him were being swept away by the same wave of emotions as though they were mysteriously connected by some kind of invisible bond.

* * *

 


	13. After the rain

**13\. Chapter: After the rain** Soundtrack: Vera Lynn "After the Rain"  
  
He awoke with a feeling of inner peace and serenity flowing through him, only half aware of how much he had come to feel at home at the Hub and how sheltered and safe he felt in Jack's bed. The strange relief spreading through him was unexpected, but very welcome, and when he descended the stairs leading from Jack's office to the Hub's main atrium a little later, his step light, his heart full of confidence, his hands thrust into the pockets of his suit, he found himself whistling one of 'the Duke's' good old tunes.

It was as though some dark chapter had been closed the previous night and he could breathe freely again – at least for now.

After a leisurely breakfast in the Hub's small kitchen, the Captain clapped eyes on Ianto, who was just returning from his first coffee round.  
  
"As far as your history lesson is concerned, sir, Owen's just told me that he is drowning in work and, therefore, won't be able to make it," the Welshman said. "I don't think we should cancel it, though. It's too important. So I'm going to be your supply teacher for today."  
  
But before the Captain could thank the young man, a loud voice rang out from the medical bay, "All I'm saying is: watching porn does not qualify as work, Owen!"  
  
"And all I'm saying is: mind your own bloody business, Gwen," came the muttered reply.

Ianto's eyebrow shot up a good inch, and the Captain felt his own eyes widen at that.  
  
"… if you're so keen on working, sweetheart, why don't you go down to the shooting range and _practice_ ," Owen added menacingly. "Everybody should practice what they're worst at."  
  
" _Oh!_ … Is _that_ why you watch so much porn? Is sex what you're worst at?" Gwen teased back. "Oh, hang on, yeah, now that you mention it, I seem to recall you being–"  
  
There was a loud slapping sound, as if the medic had thrown a file folder at her.  
  
The Captain felt a slight tug at the corner of his mouth; Ianto didn't seem too amused, though, sighing and rolling his eyes in irritation.  
  
"Jack mentioned the shooting range the other day," the Captain suddenly remembered to ask. "Gun training is a pre-condition for joining the team, right?"  
  
Ianto cast him a strange look, and for a moment, it seemed almost as if the otherwise unflappable man were flustered, a barely noticeable pink blush creeping up from under his perfectly starched collar. Although why that was the Captain couldn't quite figure out.  
  
"Well, yes, we all have to go through that … experience," Ianto replied, putting a strange emphasis on the last word.  
  
But before the Captain could ask what he had meant by that, Ianto suddenly muttered, "Would you, please, excuse me for a moment, sir," his voice devoid of any emotion again, and stepped over to the railing of the medical bay. "Owen, if I hear one more word, I'm going to go and phone Martha Jones to tell her you've been taken off the Copley case and are no longer going to work with her."  
  
"I'm working. I'm working. Gwen keeps pestering me."

 

  
  
ΨΨΨ

 

"And you've brought me cookies," the Captain remarked once he was sitting in the conference room again, waiting for the lesson to start.

"Biscuits," Ianto corrected him, face inscrutable, and put a steaming mug of coffee in front of the Captain. The tray of cookies stayed on Ianto's side of the conference table. "In Britain, we call them biscuits, sir."

"Yeah, I know. I've learned as much since coming here."

"Did you now?" the Welshman replied, unimpressed.

"Sure. And it was very nice of you to, uh, bring some of your British _biscuits_ to the lesson."

"Welsh!… They're _Welsh_ biscuits," Ianto corrected him without so much as a smile.

"Welsh biscuits, then," the Captain sighed, defeated.

The young man just raised an admonishing eyebrow at his tone. The cookies remained out of reach.

"And … and … I'm sure they're the best tasting … um … Welsh biscuits in the world," the Captain added quickly, scrambling for words and trying for a winning smile.

At that, the young Welshman finally gave a curt approving nod and, with an expression of saintly sternness, slid the tray across the table, toward the Captain. "Owen has asked me to boost your daily sugar intake."

It felt strange, the Captain realized. As if he had just been subjected to some form of behavioral conditioning originally meant for pets. There was just so much he didn't know about this odd young man in front of him – about what made him tick and who he was to Jack – that he didn't know what to think of it all. He decided not to dwell on it for the moment, feeling rather uncomfortable, nonetheless.

"I'm real sorry to keep you from your work," he said politely instead, sipping on his coffee and taking one of the cookies.

Ianto just gave him an indecipherable look. "That's hardly your fault, sir, wouldn't you say?"

A few seconds of silence ticked by.

"No, of course not," the Captain replied, flustered. "But … still … thank you for filling in for Owen … I'm sure, as Torchwood's second-in-command, you've got more important things to do," he stammered. _'God, I sound like an idiot, don't I?'_ he realized.

"Don't worry," Ianto said with a tiny, barely perceptible smile. "This'll give Jack a chance to rummage through the archives, unobserved. I pretend I don't notice that he nicks food from there, but, of course, I do."

"Are you tellin' me the leader of Torchwood Three does occasionally bend the rules?"

There came a quiet snort from the young man. "Occasionally?"

"Doesn't seem right."

"We all have a human side, sir," Ianto pointed out, faint smile still lingering in the corner of his mouth.

Somehow this didn't really sit right with the Captain, but he didn't want to argue, and so he changed the subject.

"So, the archives aren't just a collection of old documents, then?"

"There are all sorts of things in the archives," the Welshman agreed, voice all businesslike again, not a trace or shadow of his earlier smile left on his face. "Weaponry, old bones, alien household items, rubbish."

"And all of this comes through this … this Rift," the Captain guessed, taking another sip of his coffee.

Ianto nodded. "Broken sonic screwdrivers, lightsabers, uncharged sonic blasters, thermal detonator tape, old fob watches, psychic paper and ink, Gasan string drums, hydroharps, gas masks … It was high time we got a new team member. All this being out in the field has already resulted in a three-month archiving backlog for me."

"And Jack–?"

"Oh, Jack's always on the lookout for this alien breakfast syrup he loves so much. Technically, the archives are off-limits, but I tend to turn a blind eye … Just don't tell Owen, okay? Or he'll want an exemption from the rules as well. And Jack already told him he wouldn't get any of that hypervodka we found last week. That stuff is to be locked away."

"O-okay."

"If you're finished with your coffee, sir, we should start with the lesson now," the young man added quietly, folding his hands on the table.

History looked different through Ianto's eyes: less detailed, less intense than in Toshiko's lesson. The man seemed to deliberately keep the pictures and film sequences to a minimum, reciting dates, names and facts by heart and presenting history as a series of events linked in a chronological order of cause and effect. It all sounded far more matter-of-fact, more empirical, than the day before.

Maybe it was the clinical way in which it was all presented to him, or maybe it was just the fact that the Captain didn't know what to make of the closed-off expression on the young man's face, but he felt uncomfortable being lectured at like this.

There were no friendly smiles or reassuring pats to his shoulder, and from the way Ianto was rushing through the topics, his voice devoid of any kind of emotion, his gaze steady and calm, it was clear that he was trying to make up for the time Toshiko had lost the day before.

The most astonishing thing, however, was the fact that he was reciting all of this from memory, not relying on any notes. As though everything were engraved in his archivist's brain, alongside countless access codes and file numbers.  
  
As far as the topics of the lesson were concerned, the Captain was in for a disappointment. Somewhere, deep down, if only subconsciously, he had assumed that World War II would serve as a wake-up call, that mankind would finally learn its lesson and turn around. One last war. The war of all wars. The war to end all wars … They had all believed it the same way people had during the Great War. One last sacrifice, one last bloodshed to bring freedom and liberty to the world … But clearly that had been wishful thinking, as the world had just merrily gone about its business of waging one war after the other. The Korean War, the Cuban missile crisis, Vietnam … well, and surely the way these hippie folks dressed could only be called an atrocity.

"Good Lord!" the Captain heard himself sigh involuntarily. "Did we fight a war so that kids could go in rags, stop cutting their hair and cover themselves with mud?"

For a second, something like an approving smile seemed to cut through the impassive expression on Ianto's face, gleaming in the man's dark, secretive eyes as he straightened his sleeves and flicked some invisible lint off his impeccable suit. Then he resumed his lecture.

It was the only time the Captain dared to interrupt the lesson.

 

ΨΨΨ

 

Sometime around lunchtime, the door opened and Jack strolled in, looking like a cat on a mission.

"So, how's it going, boys?" he asked, cordially wrapping his hand around the Captain's shoulder and glancing across the table at his second-in-command.

"I was just telling him about Martin Luther King," Ianto replied. "Thought it best to make sure he knows how much racial attitudes have changed over the last few decades. After all, we wouldn't want him to say anything … unfortunate once Martha Jones arrives, would we?"

"Oh, he wouldn't," Jack said, his hand staying exactly where it was. "He's a gentleman."

" _He_ can hear you, you know …" the Captain muttered.

He could practically feel the other man standing behind his chair, warmth radiating against his back. The large hand on his shoulder didn't seem in any hurry to disappear anytime soon. Granted, there was nothing suspicious in clasping one's hand around a friend's shoulder; it was a companionable thing to do, a sign of good-natured camaraderie. But that hand was supposed to leave its resting place after an undefined, yet socially acceptable period of time. And that time was up now. Had been for a minute already.

The Captain could feel the light press of Jack's thumb against the muscle connecting his shoulder blade to his neck, where the fabric of his shirt was slightly damp and warm over his skin; he could feel those four finger pads where Jack's hand was curled lazily around his clavicle, could feel his own slightly elevated heartbeat pulse right into Jack's fingertips … It felt strangely comfortable and natural, and yet the fact that Ianto was sitting right across the table from them was disconcerting as hell.

"How come he gets biscuits, and I don't?" Jack mock-pouted suddenly.

" _Biscuits_ … You say 'biscuits'?" the Captain mouthed up at him conspiratorially, turning his head slightly to catch sight of the man's profile. "Ianto's trained you well, hasn't he?"

"Watch and learn," Jack replied in a stage whisper, winking down at him.

And with these words, he suddenly reached over the Captain's shoulder with his free hand and snatched a couple of cookies off the tray, his other hand never leaving the spot where it was resting, his hard chest connecting with the back of the Captain's head for a second when he leaned over him, his scent suddenly everywhere.

The look Ianto shot his boss at that couldn't have been more scathing. "To answer your question, the Captain gets biscuits because he had to live on rationed food for quite some time, and it's hard enough to find belts that'll hold up the trousers around his waist," he said with a throw-away gesture in the Captain's direction. "Also, he _behaves_ … and knows how to stick to the rules."

"I alwayv ffftick to ffe rulev," Jack protested, mouth full of cookies.

The Captain could still feel the man's hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy and oddly steadying. He tried, as much as he could, to pretend it wasn't there, staring straight ahead and refusing to lower his gaze to his shoulder.

And that was when he noticed it: Ianto was watching them from across the table, watching him and Jack intently with his alert dark blue eyes, taking everything in, every little movement, every tiny smile … It was disconcerting, and the Captain felt himself squirm under that calm, cool gaze. Yet, hard as he tried to figure out what it meant, the task turned out to be impossible. The look Ianto was measuring them with was completely unreadable, his expression guarded and wary.

 _'Why's he acting so strange around me?'_ the Captain wondered. Had he not overheard the young Welshman laugh and joke with Jack, had he not heard, with his own ears, how the man had comforted and consoled his boss late at night in his office, he wouldn't have believed what a kind and warm person Ianto was; he would have genuinely thought him to be cold, impassive and withdrawn. But since the Captain _had_ heard what he had heard, he could only assume that the man's uncaring, heartless demeanor was an act. Of course, that still didn't explain the calculating look the young Welshman was giving them …

At that point in the Captain's musings, the door was suddenly flung open and in came Gwen, bringing with her some of that bright sunshine that seemed to always radiate from her eyes and immediately starting a good-natured fight with Jack over the last few cookies.

The man had withdrawn his hand from the Captain's shoulder with one last friendly squeeze and was now trying to desperately swat away Gwen's fingers from the tray.

Only a few moments later, Owen and Toshiko tumbled into the conference room as well, quarreling about something, as was their habit.

 _'Just another day at Torchwood,'_ the Captain thought and smiled.

"By the way, Jack," Ianto suddenly decided to interrupt the commotion, "the Captain's flat is almost ready for him to move in … Incidentally, his new neighbor's name sounds familiar: Tom Flanagan … Thomas Erasmus Flanagan."

"Phone book guy!" Owen exclaimed in recognition.

Gwen's reaction was a little quieter, just a short, warm, "Oh," accompanied by a sympathetic look for some reason.

"Must've moved," Jack pointed out, taking advantage of the Welshwoman's distraction to snatch the last cookie off the tray.

"It would seem so, yes," Ianto agreed.

"What I find more important, though," Owen suddenly announced, "is the fact that we're all starving here, and I don't see any food on the table."

"I haven't ordered anything yet," Ianto replied stoically.

"Are you taking the piss, teaboy?!"

"You're welcome," the young Welshman deadpanned. "There is really no need to be thanking me _quite so enthusiastically_ for filling in for you while you carried out the onerous task of watching all those scantily-clad women writhe and moan on your computer screen."  
  
"Trust me, to some of us, that task isn't _at all_ onerous," Owen scoffed back, only to be interrupted by Gwen.  
  
"Boys, boys! Stop it! Let's not fight and just order pizza–"

Ianto shook his head. "Jubilee's closed on Tuesdays, remember? I was going to order Chinese."

"Oh, not _again_!" Owen complained.

Toshiko laughed. "What do you mean 'again'? We had pizza yesterday. Today is Chow mein day."

"No way!" the doctor protested.

"Oookay …" Jack interrupted their fight. "Show of hands: who's for pizza? … And who wants Chinese? … Pizza it is, then. Problem solved."

"Since when is Torchwood a democracy? I thought you were the boss and you made the rules?" Owen grumbled under his breath, but there was something content in that grumble.

"As I've already said," Ianto sighed, "Jubilee is closed today."

"So what?" Owen huffed. "It's not like we're _obliged_ to order our pizza from there or anything. I'm sure there are other places …"

A dark cloud of secret pain seemed to pass over Ianto's usually expressionless face all of a sudden, a cloud as black as the raven feathers on the sweeping wings of the angel of guilt.

There was so much the Captain recognized in the spectral forms of that cloud – the cold shadow of self-loathing, the eternal fog of shame – that he felt himself sway in his chair for a heart-stopping moment.

Then he could hear Ianto quickly whisper in his rough, deep voice, "You may have forgotten it, Owen, but as far as I'm concerned, we _are_ obliged to … We … we owe it to them to … We should … never forget … As long as we still have our brains …" But the Welshman's voice had gone so quiet that the confused Captain could barely make out anything anymore. He wasn't even sure if the others had heard any of it, seeing as Gwen was speaking at the same time and her voice was drowning out Ianto's pained whisper.

"I've just remembered there's this new place," she was currently explaining. "The nice one that's just opened up … The one that's run by those Italian siblings. They're really good, actually … Oh, you know what? Instead of having our pizza delivered, we could just go pick it up ourselves. I mean, it's a beautiful day today. Sunshine and everything. And we get stuck down here in the darkness too often, anyway."

"But it's halfway across the city," Owen groaned.

"Come on, it's hardly _that_ far away," Gwen disagreed. "And we could give them a ring and pre-order it. I'd even volunteer to go pick it up. What about you?" she suddenly asked, turning to the Captain and giving him a wide, gap-toothed grin. "I bet you're dying to get out of here and have a look around."

"No way!" Jack cut in, crossing his arms over his chest. "The Captain's not fully prepared to go outside yet."  
  
"Oh, come on, Jack," Gwen begged. "It's not like the whole world is out to get him or something … Just a few minutes of fresh air. It'll be fun! … You can come along if you think I won't be able to look after him on my own."  
  
"Whoa! When did _I_ become the one who needs looking after?" the Captain asked with an unsure smile.  
  
"The 21st century is when everything changes, mate," Owen whispered in an overly loud voice. "Men can't do a bloody thing anymore without female supervision."  
  
"Their pizza is really good," Gwen insisted, not paying any attention to the snarky doctor whatsoever. "And their espresso is perfect … even if Ianto won't admit it."  
  
"Oh! Come! _On!_ " Owen groaned. "We _know_ it's neither the pizza nor the espresso you girls are slobbering over."

At that, Toshiko's face broke into a somewhat flustered smile. "I haven't got the faintest what you're on about, Owen. Their pizza _is_ delicious."  
  
"And so is the cute Italian guy behind the counter," Gwen blurted out, giving Toshiko an apologetic look.

From where the Captain was sitting, he could see that both women had turned beet-red.

"See?! I knew it!" Owen exclaimed. "Captain, you can do whatever you want, but I'm not setting foot in that place again. I'd rather die than have to witness yet another hysterical squee-fest over a few stupid curls."  
  
"Oh, come on, I clearly remember _someone_ saying his sister was hot," Gwen pointed out, still blushing even though her voice was back to steady and teasing. Next to her, Toshiko was vigorously nodding her head.  
  
In the end, it was agreed that Gwen would go and would take Jack and the Captain along with her to help her carry the food.

Toshiko refused to go with them, claiming to have work to do, and Ianto just quickly scurried off, brows furrowed and looking inexplicably upset about something, making the Captain shiver for some unknown reason.

 

ΨΨΨ

 

The Captain, who had thought they would leave through the cog door and make their way through the tourist office, was surprised to see Jack hop on some sort of slab in the middle of the main atrium near the water tower.  
  
"Oh, you don't know about our shortcut yet, do you?" Gwen's cheerful voice asked somewhere behind him. "Come on … This is going to be fun, I promise."

The next thing he knew, they were all three standing on the large slab of granite and Jack was activating his wrist strap with a loud beeping sound.

Suddenly, the stone under their feet gave a jolt, and the Captain felt them being lifted up into the air, his knees giving slightly and a surprised gasp escaping his lips. But he didn't stumble, nor did he fall off the strange elevator. Because at that very moment, Jack firmly grasped his hand and steadied him, as if he had expected him to lose his balance. The resulting jolt that shot through the Captain's body at that, all his muscles tensing up in an instinctive attempt to protect himself, wasn't any less disconcerting.

Gwen was standing in front of them, her back turned to them, and couldn't have seen anything. (And the Captain fervently hoped she couldn't somehow feel his heart beat violently just a few inches behind her shoulder blade.) He chanced a quick look over at Jack, who was staring steadily ahead, his warm hand never leaving the Captain's. All the while, they were further ascending toward the impossibly high ceiling, slowly being lifted out of the underworld of permanent night, upward toward the light of life and warmth, the huge pterodactyl circling around them, flapping its bat-like wings and shrieking like a lonesome demon accompanying them to the exit of Hell.

Gwen, for her part, hadn't even stopped talking, happily chattering away, "Isn't this thing just great?! … I simply couldn't believe it when Jack first showed it to me. I think I nearly fell off it."  
  
Jack hadn't let go of the Captain's hand yet, still clasping it in his considerably larger one. The Captain could feel the slight, oh-so-familiar scratch of the man's greatcoat against the back of his hand as its wool brushed over his knuckles, wondering, for a moment, what his hands felt like to Jack. Did the man feel the rough calluses on his palms, these little souvenirs from deftly operating all those flight controls like a pianist would his keys? Did he feel the tiny scars on his hand? Did he feel how madly the Captain's pulse was thrumming in his fingertips?

And at that precise moment, the Captain suddenly felt Jack's thumb stroke across the back of his fingers once, twice, and nearly fell off the slab, hand or not.  
  
"Jack?" Gwen's friendly voice asked somewhere in front of them, very near and yet so far away. "Something smells nice. Is that your cologne? Are you wearing some kind of bergamot–"

"No," Jack interrupted her in a low voice.  
  
"Oh, well … it's just that I thought I recognized the citrusy stuff my cousin always–"  
  
"Never wear any," Jack replied, as if on autopilot.

 _'God help me. I'm gonna die right now,'_ the Captain thought, feeling a slight sheen of sweat breaking out on the back of his neck, his heart stuttering like a failing engine.

And at that, they ascended through the hole in the ceiling; the Captain felt his hand being released, and all of a sudden, they were standing in a huge square, the blazing July sun beating down on them and blinding the Captain with its almost brutally harsh light for a moment.

He had made it out of the cave, had fought his way out into the sunlight, only to stand here now, dazed and blinded, unable to comprehend what his eyes were seeing. Back down there, in the land of shadows and illusive echoes, everything had seemed unreal, but over the last few days, it had, strange as this seemed, become reality to him. So much so that it was hard to believe there was another reality on the outside, a world outside the allegorical cave, a world made of colors and light, a universe of real matter, real people and real places. And now that he was actually standing there, dazzled and stunned, he found it hard to process what he was seeing, to even name any of the things he caught sight of. The vanguard buildings in front of him. The oddly-shaped white street lamps scattered around the square. The way the sun was reflecting off the sparkling surface of the puddles that yesterday's rain had left on the ground. The vivid brightness of all the colors surrounding him. The stark reality of all those sounds and smells that were filling the air. The way the sunlight had forced its way through the Welsh clouds and was beating down on him with the vengeance of a raging God. This granite sun. This sun made of molten stone. This stream of magma being poured from the exploding sky … It was all too much to take in.

"What … what is this?" the Captain heard himself stammer.

"Cardiff," Gwen's cheerful voice provided beside him. "And you know what the coolest part is?" she continued, grabbing him by the very hand that, unbeknownst to her, Jack had held in his just moments ago and dragging him down from the stone slab. "Turn around and tell me if you can see Jack."  
  
The Captain obeyed and turned, feeling an involuntary gasp escape his lips.

The spot where Jack had been standing just a few seconds ago was empty.

"It's an _invisible_ lift!" Gwen exclaimed excitedly. "Isn't it brilliant?"  
  
"Is this a … a perception filter?" the Captain asked, a bit unsure of himself, still staring at the same empty spot on the sidewalk.  
  
"How do you know?" she asked back, her Welsh vowels sounding even more rounded when she was surprised.

The fleeting image of Jack's spaceship flashed through the Captain's mind, large and powerful, yet perfectly hidden away in the Welsh countryside. "I …"  
  
"Guys, I'm hungry!" Jack interrupted his attempts to come up with an excuse, suddenly appearing out of nowhere (or so it seemed). "Let's go."

Gwen looked a bit disappointed that the Captain wasn't as impressed with this secret, invisible elevator as she had expected him to be, but didn't say anything, and so the three of them set off across the square.

Summer sunrays were warming the Captain's neck now, seeping through the fabric of his suit jacket and into the knotted muscles and tendons of his back, causing him to sigh inwardly. At least he had time-traveled from January to July, he thought with a small smile to himself.  
  
As they made their way toward the web of streets behind the square, the Captain felt his eyes grow ever wider. Of course, he had already been outside once – on Sunday, smoking with Owen – but back then, it had been dark, and they hadn't even left the quay area.  
  
Now he just didn't know where to look first.

At one point, Gwen even had to drag him back from the road he had imprudently tried to cross without looking first, thus saving him from being run over by one of those fast, nearly silent motorcars people seemed to be driving these days.

"Whoa, that's quite some traffic you've got there," the Captain remarked with a grateful smile, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

The Welshwoman just gave a little laugh, looking up at him with something akin to fond compassion in her warm gaze. "Cardiff’s actually a rather quiet town, you know … We will have to get you to London sometime, put you on Westminster Bridge and see what you say then … What do you think, Jack?"

The other man just gave a noncommittal grunt behind them.

The Captain was still reeling on the spot. Maybe this was all 'old hat' to these two. But to him, it was new, painfully, shockingly, wonderfully new. These houses over there that looked new in so many ways that he couldn't even have said what changes he was noticing and what details he had missed. Or those older buildings over there that didn't seem to have changed at all. And then … all those cars! Cars of all shapes, colors and sizes, swooshing by at an incredible speed, their side mirrors glinting in the sun like beady eyes, their exhaust fumes forming swirls of smoke that looked like fire streaming out of a dragon's nostrils. They were everywhere, a chaotic, rampaging, mangled caterpillar hissing by and intertwining in front of the Captain's eyes, a pack of Welsh hellhounds, honking like a flock of nervous geese, growling softly and foretelling his fate …

People were milling around everywhere, wearing the most ridiculous clothes the Captain had ever seen: like that pair of middle-aged tourists over there, that was currently struggling to fold up a map, their rather pronounced bellies covered by garish, matching windbreakers (despite the sunny weather!), their be-socked feet adorned with clunky beige sandals. Or like those women over there, whose clothes seemed to be more holes than fabric and whose faces were covered in so much metal that they looked as if they had been caught up in an explosion at a ball-bearing factory. To top it all off, they were boasting a plethora of tattoos that would have made a sailor weep with envy.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" the Captain could hear Gwen whisper in awe.

Jack just snorted quietly at that, a slightly absent-minded look on his face.

"Oh, come on, Jack," the Welshwoman insisted. "Just look how they've made their bodies a canvas for art. Don't you like that sort of thing?"

"What?" her boss asked back, apparently not really that interested in the inked ladies on the other side of the street.

"Art, Jack! Don't you love art?"

There was a ghost of a sad smile flickering in the man's eyes. "Art?" And then, for a split-second, it seemed as if the shadow of some deep, age-old sorrow swept across his face. But he didn't say any more.

The Captain still had his eyes glued to all the people they were passing on their way. ARP wardens weren't among them anymore, he noted. But that much was to be expected, what with the war being over for decades and everything. Still, it was hard to imagine that this was what peace looked like: the sunshine, warmth and brightness, the rain-washed pavement glistening in the sun, that happy pregnant woman over there, that boy on the other side of the street, who was walking his dog, a smile on his face and a skip in his step, those two seagulls fighting over a half-eaten sandwich, and those kids running along the side of the street, laughing, ice-cream cone in hand, threatening to touch each and everyone they were passing with their sticky fingers …

"Hey, look … ice-cream! That's a great idea … We could go buy some," Gwen suggested, eyes shining with childlike excitement. "I mean, today is the first nice day in–"

"We wanted to buy _lunch_ ," Jack cut her off. "The others are waiting."

Gwen gave the man a sidelong glance, then suddenly blurted out. "Didn't you like ice-cream when you were a little boy?"

Jack just smirked. "Nice try, Gwen."

It was obvious they weren't playing this game for the first time, and the Captain could almost see how it usually played out: Gwen would try to surprise her boss by asking him a very concrete question about his past, trying to catch him unawares. Jack, on the other hand, would laugh it all off, deflect or just flat-out ignore her. A strategy that he was apparently using right now.

"Anything else you wanna ask me while you're at it, Gwen?" he inquired with a sardonic smile.

"Whoareyouwhat'syourrealnamewhereareyoufrom?" the Welshwoman rushed out in a single breath.

The Captain didn't really pay attention to their bickering. Just now they had turned into a street that was lined with colorful shop windows, a wave of new information hitting his brain like a sledgehammer, a sudden rush of images flickering across his retinas and making him dizzy with vertigo. The busy street seemed to be bursting with adverts and pictures and shop signs, all in jarring colors and screaming bold letters, as if the entire city had suddenly decided to go crazy and bombard him with an abundance of details.

If this was it, if this was peace – the peace they had fought for, the peace they had so longed for – why did he feel nauseated at the actual sight of it? Why did it make his eyes hurt and his head spin?

'NEWSAGENT,' a sign in front of them read. The second the Captain spotted it, he made his way over to the shop door in a few long strides, a sudden desire to know, to ascertain, to prove beyond any doubt, piercing his rapidly beating heart. He quickly scanned one of the newspapers displayed on the rack outside the shop entrance, completely ignoring its main headline (something about the arrest of some Yugoslav war criminal, that the Captain didn't know anything about, anyway) and going straight for the date at the top of the page:  
  
 **Tuesday, 22 July 2008**  
  
 _'So, it's really true,'_ he thought, the world suddenly getting almost painfully sharp in the corner of his eyes, as if his already keen eyesight had somehow gotten even keener. _'It's all true. I've really traveled in time.'_

Until now, he realized, some small part of his brain had managed to shut out reality, refusing to believe anything they had told him. Holed up in the Hub, surrounded by a bunch of insane people and their outlandish apparatuses, he had still been able to tell himself that he was just trapped in some kind of madhouse, lying in a lightless, soundproof coffin covered by the pall of insanity, that everything would be fine once he got out – fine or, rather, _not_ fine at all … normal in that terrible sense of the word … that he would find himself caught up in the normalcy of war and suffering and bleeding and dying … Only now that he had finally managed to escape the madhouse, it had turned out that the war that had lain in wait for him outside the Hub was a different one from the one he had expected …

He patted down his pockets in search of his cigarette pack. A Cigarette. Just the thing to calm his nerves. A kingdom for a cigarette. Or even more than just a kingdom: a Spitfire. A Spitfire for a cigarette. A sleek, powerful, thrumming Spitfire for a cigarette! But alas … the only thing he came up with when digging through his pockets was the empty, battered cigarette pack he had kept as a souvenir. Well, this wouldn't do. He would have to do something about that soon. It was surprising he hadn't keeled over from nicotine withdrawal yet, anyway.

He felt nauseated all of a sudden, fingertips sweating slightly against the crisp, ink-smudged newspaper, where he was still touching it, something in his stomach unfurling like an uncoiling snake, the noise of traffic reaching his ears like sounds in a fish tank.

And that was when he suddenly heard it … "Harkness … Pssst, Harkness … Jack Harkness … Captain Jack Harkness!"

The Captain felt himself whirl around in surprise, quickly scanning the crowd to locate the owner of the voice that had called out to him. But nobody seemed to be looking in his direction.  
  
At that, Jack suddenly appeared at his shoulder. "Everything alright?"

The other two team members had already proceeded further down the street, the Captain realized now, and apparently, Jack had only just now noticed his trailing behind and had returned to his side.

"Someone just called out my name … well, your name, actually," the Captain quickly corrected himself.

"I didn't hear anything," Jack shrugged in response. "What direction did it come from?"

"I … don't know. I'm sure I heard it, though."

They both looked around again, but nobody seemed to be paying them any attention.

"Was it a man's or a woman's voice?" Jack asked.

"A man's."

"Accent?"

"I really couldn't say. It was over too quickly."

Frowning, Jack looked around once more.

"But that's not unusual, right?" the Captain inquired. "You live here; there's probably lots of folks who know you around here. Or maybe … I just imagined it, you know. I'm still a bit overwhelmed by all of … this." He lifted his arm and made an all-encompassing gesture.

"Yeah … yeah, maybe," Jack replied, narrowing his eyes in thought for a second. It was obvious the man didn't trust his own words. Then finally, he gave a little shrug, as if he had just dismissed something as unlikely. "It was probably nothing. If there had been anyone, I definitely would've heard them, trust me."

"Are you alright, love?" Gwen's worried voice rang out from somewhere beside them. The Welshwoman had made her way back to where they were still standing in front of the little shop. "Did you want to buy that newspaper?" she asked, pointing at the paper the Captain had forgotten he was still holding in his hand.

"Uh … no. It's … alright." He gave her a small smile, feeling slightly embarrassed, and placed the thing back on the rack.

"You look awfully pale, you know," she insisted. "You sure you're okay?"

Well, that was the question, wasn't it? Was he sure he was okay? Was he sure about anything these days?

Several men passed them, all of them in a hurry, all of them wearing suits, all of them on their way back to work from their lunch break, the Captain figured. But if you were wearing a suit, tie and shined shoes, why would you be running around bareheaded like an uncivilized savage, he wondered. Around here, so much seemed so at odds with the natural way of doing things.

"This must all be terribly frightening to you," Gwen's sympathetic voice interrupted his thoughts once again. "I mean all those cars and all that noise. That's what you're thinking, right?"

"Actually, I was just wondering why no one seems to be wearing hats anymore," the Captain pointed out with a smile. "Whoever introduced this fashion?"

"President Kennedy," Jack stated matter-of-factly.

The Captain tried to recall what Ianto had told him earlier. "That the one who was shot?"

"But not for rejecting hats," Gwen laughed.

"Ianto swears he was," Jack disagreed with a grin.

"That's Joe Kennedy's son we're talkin' about, right?" the Captain asked to clarify. "Kinda hard to believe that old crook's kid turned out well."

Gwen gave him a quizzical look, as if she didn't know what he was talking about. "He was a great president," she said, beaming with conviction.

"Says the girl who wasn't even born back then," Jack snorted. (Which, the Captain thought, was a rather odd remark, considering the fact that neither had been Jack … To actually have more than just a vague recollection of the president in question, Jack would have to be in his early fifties now, which the Captain seriously doubted. And even a person in their early fifties would have been just a little boy back then.)

As they started down the street again, it was the Captain who broke the silence. "Pity all the good guys seem to get shot … Well, anyway … I don't see why no one's wearing hats. Don't people need to cover their heads anymore? It's not like the weather's suddenly gettin' warmer or anything, is it?" he joked with a little smile.  
  
"Oh, you'd be surprised," Gwen smiled, looking up at him from where she was walking to his right. "We're experiencing a global climate change at the moment. It is, indeed, getting warmer. But that's got nothing to do with the hats."  
  
"You're kidding!" the Captain exclaimed. " _A climate change?_ "

Gwen nodded vigorously. "It's called global warming, and it's caused by carbon emissions. We're not treating our planet decently, and all this air pollution is–"

"Oh, please, don't turn him into an environmentalist, Gwen," Jack sighed, irritation evident in his voice.

"What's wrong with being an environmentalist?!" the young woman challenged.

"It's just another religion," Jack grumbled.

At that, her eyebrows drew together in defiance. "I really don't see how protecting the environment would qualify as–"

"–dogmatic? Ideological? Doctrinaire?"

"Really, Jack, you can be such a nihilist sometimes," the young woman bristled back at him. "There's nothing wrong with having beliefs, you know. If we stop being such defeatists, maybe we can find the strength to turn around. It's not like we have another planet we can go to."

The man just turned toward the Captain and smirked. "Unlike Gwen, I'm a bit skeptical when it comes to human nature's ability to make a genuine change," he explained. "And mankind isn't that important anyway, you know. There _are_ other planets …"

Gwen was just shaking her head. "Cynic."

"Hippie."

"Oh, do stop being so terribly American."

"I'm not," the man replied quietly.

A few tense seconds ticked by as they continued down the street, with Gwen silently fuming and muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Attitude …"

And that was the moment that the Captain suddenly realized he liked her, liked this genuinely good and feisty person. There was just something so honest and sincere about her infectious enthusiasm and determination that it was almost physically impossible not to, which was probably why, suppressing a smile and clearing his throat, he suddenly found himself breaking the silence and agreeing with her. "Pretty sure _somebody_ told me yesterday never to give up on humanity," he pointed out cautiously.

" _Ha!_ " Gwen exclaimed triumphantly. "No use in pretending you hate us all, Jack; we won't be fooled. And we refuse to believe you'd just give up on this planet!"

The 'us all' sounded strange, the Captain thought, but he couldn't really put his finger on why that was.

"Judas," Jack hissed at him, sounding more amused than anything else.

The Captain shrugged apologetically, before returning to their previous topic of conversation. "So … global warming, huh?"

Gwen nodded solemnly, while Jack just snorted.

The Captain looked back and forth between the two of them, not sure what to think. "Still, I gotta say I don't feel fully dressed without a hat."

Gwen's eyes suddenly began to shine with glee. "Ohh, but we could go shopping for one, you know."

"We're _not_ going shopping, Gwen," Jack cut in patiently, the forced note in his voice clearly indicating he was anything but.

"Why the hell not?" the Welshwoman laughed. "We could buy him a fedora or something – if we can find one, that is. And frankly, you could benefit from a little stroll around the shops as well, Jack. Just look at yourself: always the same blue shirts! I mean, I get it, they suit you; you look good in them, and it's your favorite color, but don't you think you could try something different every once in a–"

"Blue isn't my favorite color," Jack muttered under his breath.

"… and we could buy you something a bit more up-to-date, Jack. Honestly, your clothes look like something my grandpa would wear," she continued, without even taking a breath. "Let's go right now and–"

"We're _not_ going shopping, Gwen," Jack repeated with deliberate patience. "We wanted to buy lunch."

"Oh, you're boring, you know that?"

They walked a few minutes without saying anything. Gwen was pouting, and Jack seemed caught up in his thoughts. The silence between them was all the more pronounced by the sound of the cars swooshing along the street and the chatter of people walking by.

After a few moments of silence, during which the Captain tried to come up with something to say in order to break the tension, he eventually settled on, "So, what'll happen if you have a hypervodka?"

Jack looked over to him in surprise. "Did Ianto tell you about that?"

But before the man could say any more, Gwen cut in, hazel eyes sparkling with vengeful glee. "Oh, I can tell you what happens if one drinks any of that stuff … _Apparently_ , you wake up in bed with your executioners."

"What?" the Captain laughed, looking over to Jack, whose face had gone inscrutable in a matter of seconds.

"At least that's the story we've been told," Gwen said, adding under her breath, "… about a thousand times … Anyway … Apparently, you have a few hypervodkas, and everything turns into a blur. And then, eventually, when you wake up, you're in bed with your executioners."

"Damn," the Captain muttered, mock-impressed, then joked, "I've gotta get me some of that stuff."

Jack threw him a sharp glance at that. And suddenly, the Captain saw what he had just said there, how it had sounded, saw the entire scene that had transpired between them on Jack's spaceship play out before his inner eye again: the way Jack had threatened to execute him with his Webley, the way the man's cerulean eyes had seemed so harsh and cold …

"Sounds like the better alternative, doesn't it?" Gwen agreed, still innocently joking. "Instead of being shot in the back of the head, you end up between the sheets with the one who was wielding the gun. I'd like that."

"Me too," the Captain heard himself mutter before he could stop himself, suddenly feeling too warm in his suit. (But that was probably just the sun bearing down on them. Had to be.)

He tried to covertly catch Jack's gaze, but the man wasn't looking at him, his face half turned away, his strong jaw strangely clenched.

"I'm hungry," he suddenly gritted out to the Captain's surprise and disappeared into some shop unexpectedly.

They had reached their destination, the Captain realized.

The shop turned out to be rather small, but packed with customers.  
  
"Hi, er, we're here to pick up the pizzas we've ordered," Gwen stammered the moment they had finally reached the front of the line and were being addressed by the Italian man behind the counter. "The name's Torch– … er … Cooper. Gwen Cooper."

Having been told that it would take a few moments, the Captain and Jack proceeded to the cheap plastic table that had been crammed into a corner of the shop as some kind of waiting area, with Gwen taking her time wrapping up her animated conversation with the Italian.

"I thought you said she was engaged …" the Captain inquired quietly.  
  
Jack just shrugged noncommittally. "I doubt that that over there is a serious thing."  
  
Apparently, attitudes had changed _a lot_ since the forties. The Captain, for his part, had had to break up more than one drunken bar brawl in his time that had started with one guy looking at another guy's girl the wrong way and had ended with fists flying and people breaking bottles and chair legs over one another's heads (George often turning up somewhere in the very thick of it). But then again, feelings had been running high back then, and war had made them all a bit jittery and quick-tempered …

At this point, the Captain's musings were interrupted by Jack. "Besides, I wouldn't be surprised if Gwen were passing him Tosh's phone number just now."  
  
The Captain looked over to the counter, where Gwen was batting her eyelashes at the Italian currently pocketing a scrap of paper.

The Captain turned away again. On the table, in front of him, there lay several leaflets with the pizza place's menu and phone number printed on them. Skimming over the list of pizzas and their mind-boggling prices – apparently, inflation had increased massively over the last few decades – he suddenly felt himself give a little start. Someone had written something on one of the leaflets in green ink.

"Look, someone wrote down what they wanted to order but left their note here." He lifted the leaflet off the stack and gave it to Jack. "Must have been an Italian customer. 'Cause this _is_ Italian, right?"

Jack squinted, then brought the piece of paper closer to his eyes. "It _is_ … 'Noi eravamo quello che voi siete, e quello che noi siamo voi sarete'," he read in surprisingly fluent Italian. "This isn't a pizza order. It's more … poetic than that."

"O-okay. What does it mean?"

"'We were what you are, and what we are, you will be.' … Actually, I think I've read it before. In Rome. It was a very long time ago." A small crease appeared on Jack's tan forehead. "It was an epitaph on a tomb."

For some reason, the Captain felt something inside of him tremble like a cornered animal, the nausea from earlier returning and washing over him like a wave, the smell of fresh pizza dough becoming unbearable all of a sudden, invariably reminding him of the stench of rotting flesh. The walls seemed to be closing in on him, and everything seemed too small all of a sudden: the room, the tiny plastic chair he was sitting in, the entire shop … Hell, he wasn't made for this! He was trained to fight, not to sit around, to lead, not to while away the time, to fly, not to stay behind on the ground. Goddammit! … Something inside of him was longing for an earth-shattering, reality-busting explosion, for this place to be blown up around him, to be smashed to pieces, pulverized into smithereens. Anything to get out of here. Anything to get back into the sun and warmth, out into the light. Anything to take a deep breath and inhale the clear fresh air of this crisp summer day. Anything to embrace the chaos of the city again …

"Maybe some … some professor was sittin' here earlier, waiting for his food and spreading his notes all across the table?" he finally managed to asked.

"Maybe."

"Hey, what do you two look so gloomy about?" Gwen exclaimed happily, appearing seemingly out of nowhere and plopping down in the chair next to the Captain's. "It'll just be another minute or so. And they're offering us free espressos to make up for our wait."

Jack just shook his head with a small smile. "Ianto'd kill me if I cheated on him like that."

Gwen laughed. "Yeah, you're right. And we wouldn't want that, would we? That'd be such a mess to clean up: all that blood and brain matter everywhere."

They laughed, all three of them, the Captain feeling some of the tension flow out of him at the stupid joke.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gwen and Jack exchange a quick, knowing look. They were both still laughing; it just looked as if they did it, knowing something that he didn't. As if the joke was somehow made even funnier by that silent knowledge … funnier and yet somewhat more poignant …

"Speaking of dying," Gwen suddenly whispered conspiratorially to Jack and him. "Isn't _he_ just to die for?" She jerked her head in the direction of the Italian behind the counter.  
  
"Careful, Gwen," Jack smirked. "The Captain here already thinks you a loose woman for flirting with another man like that."

"Oh, no, no, no," the Captain clarified, embarrassed. "I … didn't mean it like that."  
  
But Gwen didn't seem to mind either way. "I really don't care what anyone thinks," she laughed. "Some people are just too gorgeous for me to even think about having regrets."

"Couldn't agree more," Jack muttered quietly. And just like that, the man's hand landed flat on the tabletop. To the casual observer, this might have looked coincidental, as if he were just placing the leaflet he was still clutching in his hand back on top of the stack, but from the way the edge of his hand connected softly with the Captain's, it was clear he had done it on purpose.

The Captain felt his heart give a sudden loud thud but didn't pull his hand away, forcing himself to keep his eyes on Gwen.

The edge of Jack's palm felt warm and a little rough, resting ever-so-slightly against the side of his hand.

With both their palms flat on the table, it probably looked innocuous enough to anyone in the room – one would have had to look really hard to even notice that they were touching at all – and yet the Captain couldn't stop himself from chancing a quick glance around the shop to determine if anyone had seen anything, his heart beating faster and stronger in his chest, that was welling up with a strange mixture of overwhelming nervousness and almost comforting warmth, a desire to bolt from the room and a paralyzing sense of yearning, that kept him from moving a muscle. Why was Jack doing this, for Christ's sake?! And in public at that! Had he lost his mind?

"Isn't he just too hot for words?" Gwen's rough whisper snapped the Captain out of his thoughts. (Oh, right. She had meant the Italian.)

The Captain looked over at the man behind the counter again. "Well, uh … I wouldn't know," he shrugged. The guy seemed normal enough to him, a little short maybe. It was obvious Gwen had fallen for his boyish, dimpled smile, big doe eyes and dark curls. But whatever it was she saw in him, the Captain sure as hell didn't.

At that moment, a young woman walked in from a backroom (probably the kitchen) – from her long curly hair and the dimples in her cheeks, it was obvious she was the man's sister – and started handing out pizza boxes to customers. Having seen off the last one, she turned to cast a look over her shoulder to the far corner of the room, and suddenly, the Captain was met with a curious maroon gaze.

The woman was staring at him, he realized, her fiery eyes piercing him like an X-ray, probingly, inquisitively.

He averted his gaze quickly.

"I think somebody _likes_ you," Gwen whispered, nudging the Captain in the side teasingly.

Jack's hand seemed to grow even warmer against his all of a sudden. (And did he just imagine it, or could he actually feel the man's heartbeat? A steady pulse throbbing in the small spot where they were touching, never-ceasing and strong.)

The Captain turned away, looking out of the window, into the distance … Anything to not feel Jack's intense crystal blue gaze burn into him from the side right now!

But he didn't pull his hand away, nonetheless.

"Oh, you're both boring," Gwen sighed. "What's the matter with you two? What's with the serious faces? Next time, I'll ask Tosh to come along, not you. Tosh … and Owen. Just so he can roll his eyes at us again," she grinned. "And anyway … what's wrong with you, Jack? You've become _so_ boring and miserable lately. The old Jack I knew would have been all over that girl by now. Ever since you came back, you're all doom and gloom."  
  
"Maybe I'm just gettin' old?" Jack suggested with a smile, revealing a brilliant white row of teeth. There was some dark, hidden undercurrent to the man's voice, though, that seemed at odds with his smile, making it appear more shark-like than anything.

"Yeah, right!" Gwen snorted quietly in response, giving her boss an odd look, that the Captain was unable to decipher.  
  
It was strange, the way they all kept mentioning the time Jack had been away, the Captain thought. As if he had been a different man before. As if someone else had returned in his place. As if there were a clear cut between 'before' and 'after', a deep divide separating B.C. from A.D.

"And what's up with you, Captain?" Gwen's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "You seem distracted. I thought you'd like to go outside and have a bit of fun … I think she's still looking at you, just so you know."

"Oh, well …" He cleared his throat, shrugging his shoulders.

"Oh, come on," Gwen teased. "You've probably broken more than one heart back in '41, a charmer like you."

Could this get even more awkward? It was just _so_ Gwen to be so insistent in the face of someone's reluctance.

"There was a war going on …" he replied defensively, his quiet voice sounding hoarse even to his own ears.

"And that didn't leave _any_ time for a few in-between-sorties kisses on the dance floor?" Gwen laughed in disbelief.

Apparently, things _could_ get even more awkward, the Captain realized now.

Jack's chin had snapped up defiantly, and to make matters even worse, the strong, tanned column of the man's throat was now exposed to the Captain, who was trying his best to keep his eyes off it.

"They're signaling for us to come," Jack suddenly gritted out, his warm hand finally moving away from the Captain's on the tabletop. "Our pizzas are done."

"Hey, I think I know how to brighten you two up a bit," Gwen stated. "You're paying!" she exclaimed happily, jabbing an outstretched finger at the Captain.  
  
"What? No! I'd just make a fool outta myself … No!" The Captain put a steely note of authority in his voice, a fail-proof strategy, that he knew always worked on his trainees.

Apparently, it didn't on Gwen. At all.

"Oh, come on. You've got to start practicing with the currency sometime … Here's your money. Off you go," she shooed him away, shoving a few coins and bills in his hand.

From the way one corner of Jack's mouth twitched up slightly, it was obvious the leader of Torchwood Three wasn't completely unfamiliar with being ordered about by this insubordinate, yet likeable little person.

To the Captain's surprise, it all worked out better than he had expected.

When at first he failed to place the correct sum on the counter, fumbling with the money and muttering, "I'm real sorry, ma'am. I can't seem to be able to, uh, spot any of my shillings," the Italian woman just looked up at him from under her black curls, smiled broadly and asked in a voice accented with a mediterranean flavor, "You _americano_?"

He nodded in reply.

"Tourist?" she inquired curiously. (It sounded more like 'toorrrist-a'.)

"Uh …" He looked over to where Jack was still sitting at the table. "Actually, I just moved here," he replied with a shy smile. "Guess it just takes some time gettin' used to, well, uh … everything."  
  
" _Oh_ , I _know_ that-a. Don't-a worry. Here, let me help-a you," she said, starting to pick the coins off his open palm with nimble fingers.

 _'Oh, they've gone decimal!'_ he suddenly realized as he watched her count the money.

She was wearing a little silver cross around her neck that looked exactly like the one his mother had always worn. It was swinging back and forth against her chest, punctuating her every word.

"We went t'rrrough the same thing, you know. First-a the lira, then the euro. And then we moved-a here and had to get used-a to the pound. It took-a some time," she explained, her loud laughter cascading through the room like a waterfall.  
  
He nodded, not sure what the girl was talking about. _'Euro?'_ he wondered.  
  
"Here you go, _ragazzo_ ," the girl finally announced, handing him his change and several flat boxes over the counter.

The next thing he knew, the Captain found himself being steered toward the exit by Gwen, who had slipped her hand through his arm. "You'll feel more comfortable doing all of these things soon, love. I promise."

From the corner of his eye, he could see Jack get up from his chair and make his way over to them, after quickly pocketing the leaflet with the strange writing on it.

"Aw, you're such a gentleman," Gwen's loud voice exclaimed right next to the Captain's ear as soon as they were standing on the sunlit sidewalk again.

"Uh …" He had no idea whatsoever what had warranted such a remark.

"You've just held the door for me," she stated. "Didn't you notice? … Now, if only you could teach Owen these kind of things. You should probably spend as much time with him as possible. Maybe it'll catch on with him."

He had no idea how to even respond to that, especially seeing as the Welshwoman was already addressing him again within a few moments of her first remark. "No, don't do _that_."

Somewhere beside them, Jack was obviously trying very hard not to smile.

"Wha– What did I do now?" the Captain inquired cautiously.

"Look, I can carry some of the bags, too. I'm not made of glass," she complained. "I mean, it's not like they're heavy, you know. It's just pizza boxes in there. No need to take this bag out of my hand, sweetheart."

Jack's secretive smile was now starting to look less and less secretive. "Sweetheart?" he whistled. "Hell, you must've done something right, Captain. She never calls me that," he mouthed in a stage whisper.

"Well, you don't deserve it, that's why," Gwen smiled falsely. "Also, you're way uglier than him," she informed him, sticking her tongue out at him like a kid.

"You're hurting my self-esteem," Jack sniffed. (It was a mock complaint, the corner of the man's mouth was twitching uncontrollably, threatening to break into a smile.)

"Like that's even possible," Gwen muttered under her breath with an almost Ianto-esque eye roll. "You were probably born with it … Which reminds me: where were you born, Jack? …"

The Captain listened to their banter and couldn't help but smile involuntarily. Maybe it was just the sun and fresh air, but his earlier state of shock had finally worn off, and as he walked along the street with them, he suddenly realized that he felt relieved and quite a bit gayer than before.

And, of course, he stood his ground this time, simply refusing to hand back any of the bags he was carrying now. Eventually, Gwen was forced to give up and accept that, in his world, it was unthinkable to let a lady carry anything as long as one was still in command of both one's hands.  
  
When they stopped at a traffic light, waiting to cross the street, the Captain chanced a quick look over to Jack over Gwen's head.

The man was quietly smiling at something, his eyes warm and tender, his smooth skin almost golden in the sunlight. There was such a sense of peace emanating from him that the Captain felt his breath catch for a moment, watching the summer wind tug at the man's hair … gently, fondly like a friend … or a lover.

Their eyes met over the top of Gwen's head, and it suddenly hit the Captain how incredibly young Jack was looking at this moment with his windswept hair and his open gaze, how vulnerable and hopeful, how sincere.

The soft playing of a piano could be heard drifting out into the street through an open window, causing a sharp stabbing pain in the Captain's heart. And for a split second, the Captain even thought he could hear the sound of ocean waves washing up on the shores of another world, feel a different kind of sunlight burn his skin, smell the salty air of some coast unknown to man … He had no idea what had brought on these images, but somehow they had to be connected to the way the sun was kissing Jack's jaw line, honeying the very tips of his brown hair, playing in his half-closed eyes; they had to be linked to the fact that the man looked carefree and relaxed and unguarded and … and …

"What do you look so happy about, Jack?" Gwen suddenly exclaimed.

"I've got no idea what you're talking about," Jack replied with almost convincing innocence, still smiling at the Captain.

"Oh, but you're beaming like a–" she insisted.

"It's nothing," the man interrupted her quietly and shrugged, never taking his half-closed eyes off the Captain.

He had taken off his greatcoat and had slung it over his arm, the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt exposing a strong forearm, that, in the sunlight, looked nearly bronze – a fact that the Captain was trying very hard to ignore.

"Is it the sun that's made you go all smiley face?" Gwen inquired again. "Look at you, you're not even wearing your coat. Is this your way of showing us, mere mortals, that you're one of us, after all? That even you are warm sometimes?"

Jack's heavy-lidded eyes quickly darted over to the Captain, all innocence suddenly gone from the man's expression. "Yeah, I feel pretty naked without my usual armor," he quipped with a lopsided grin.

The moment the word 'naked' crossed Jack's lips, it went straight to the Captain's brain, where it apparently caused a short-circuit of some kind. It was a good thing the traffic lights decided to turn back to green at that very moment because this way the Captain could at least channel all of his uncontrolled energy into walking; this way he could hide what was going through his guilty mind: the scandalizing, yet dizzyingly arousing images of broad shoulders and warm skin, of Jack taking off his shirt and exposing a chest that … oh, God! He had never seen the man anything but fully clothed, and yet these images were vivid and overwhelming to the point of rendering the Captain speechless.

It was at this moment that Jack's phone started ringing.

"Yes? … Oh, you're calling about the report … I _know_ it was due on– What?! … Listen, I'll send it tomorrow … I promise! … By the way, you'll find attached the contract of our new field agent … Oh, it's already cleared with H.M., which is why you'll just have to accept it, I'm afraid … What? …"

At this point Jack had fallen so far behind that the Captain couldn't hear his voice anymore over the rush of traffic. Slowly trailing behind the Captain and Gwen, the man seemed to still be arguing with somebody over the phone.

"So, I think that Italian girl really liked you," Gwen interrupted the Captain's thoughts. She had resolutely grabbed him by the arm again and was conspiratorially winking at him now. "Do you want me to find out her phone number?"

"It's printed all across the bags," the Captain pointed out impassively, slightly raising the hand in which he was carrying them.

" _And?_ … Are you going to ask her out?"  
  
He coughed. Didn't people have anything else to talk about these days?  
  
"I don't think so."

"Oh, always the shy one," she smiled. "Do you want _me_ to ring her for you?"

"No, please … I … Just don't."  
  
"Why _not_?" she asked, her Welsh vowels lighting up like a reflective sign on the side of the road. She seemed honestly surprised.

"'Cause I wanna get settled in first before I even start thinking about … about those kinda things."  
  
Gwen blew a black strand of hair out of her face and smiled again. "Oh, relax, you're way too serious for your own good. We're not at war anymore, you know. Try not to forget that you've got to have a life outside of Torchwood. Or else you'll end up like Owen: drunk out of your mind half of the time and with a different girl every weekend. If he goes on like this, it'll be the death of him."  
  
"I'm a pilot; I'm not gonna drink myself half blind," the Captain reassured her with a smile. "And as for girls, I think that's not my kinda thing."  
  
He realized it the moment it was out of his mouth, his heart slamming into his throat with terror.

He had said it. He had actually said it. He had uttered the words before he had even managed to think them. Had never thought them. Never in his entire life. Not actively, anyway.

And there it was, out in the open. The words had slipped out like loose pages from a book, that was now irreparably torn. The shock was so great that he could barely walk straight for the next minute or so.

To his surprise, however, Gwen had gotten him completely wrong. Apparently, she had taken it that it was the 'different-girl-every-weekend' mindset that he didn't agree with. Because suddenly, she was smiling at him encouragingly. "I knew you weren't one of those sleazy guys who are constantly on the pull."

A sigh of sharp, almost painful relief traveled through his body once he had realized that she had misunderstood him. And yet … the fact remained that he had actually thought _it_ , had really, truly, actively thought it for the very first time in his life. It was an inner earthquake, that had shaken him and had left the landscape of his soul altered forever, ravaged and barren. There was just no going back on those words. It was as if he had just admitted to some crime, to something that was worse than a disease. And the fact that Gwen hadn't realized it didn't change anything, he realized with a shudder, didn't change the fact that he had heard himself utter them, didn't diminish the deep sense of self-disappointment, he was feeling right now.

It was obvious that this strange new world was wreaking havoc on his nerves, or so he told himself.  
  
When the two of them finally descended back into the Hub again, the Captain felt himself relax considerably, not even minding the fact that his eyes had to get used to the cave-like semi-darkness again. Even the screeching dinosaur circling them suddenly seemed familiar and unthreatening to him. It all felt more like home now. As if he were slowly getting used to this hell just because it was calmer than life on the outside, a cool, quiet grave, that they were now descending back into.

"Where the hell have you been?" a familiar Cockney accent greeted them in the main atrium. "What took you so long? Those bloody pizzas are probably colder than the glaciers of the Himalayas by now," Owen complained as they made their way over to the boardroom.

"Ooh," Gwen winced. "I had the strangest feeling just now … when you said 'Himalayas'. Like someone's just walked over my grave. Weird!" She raised her forearm for them to see. There were goosebumps on her skin.

Owen just gave her an irritated look. "So, now we're back to seeing ghosts again?"

The doctor was only placated when Jack finally turned up and the food was put on the table in order to pacify the demons of hunger. He practically tore apart the plastic bags, bits and pieces of cardboard and styrofoam flying everywhere, and started inhaling his pizza, looking for what it was worth like a grumpy little gnome feasting off of hell's carrion.

 

ΨΨΨ

 

At the end of the lunch break, Jack left the conference room, coffee cup in hand. Toshiko, Gwen and Owen were talking about something in the corner, and Ianto was tidying up and clearing the table for their lesson. The Captain, for his part, was sipping at his coffee, trying to process everything he had seen today.

Suddenly, the door opened again and Jack returned, hands in his pockets. "Almost forgot to tell you," he addressed Ianto. "I had a phone call earlier about that stupid paperwork."

The young man just raised a quizzical eyebrow at his boss. "Same old story every month with you," he sighed. "I get it, you don't like them being in charge of us. But, for now, you will have to follow procedure and report to them, you know."

"I'll write the report. Really! … I promise. And I'll even enclose the Captain's contract."

Ianto still looked skeptical but refrained from saying anything else.

And that was when it happened: Jack casually leaned against the table, lifted the coffee cup up to his lips and took a sip from it, almost immediately setting the thing back on the tabletop afterwards.

So far, so ordinary. It was just that … it wasn't Jack's cup; it was the Captain's.

It could have been completely innocent, of course. After all, the man had taken his own mug with him when he had left the room earlier, returning without it. Maybe he had forgotten that and had grabbed the next best mug, which just happened to be the one sitting on the table in front of the Captain.

But one look at the twinkle in Jack's blue eyes and his knowing grin convinced the Captain that it hadn't happened purely by accident. The man had done it on purpose. It had been a statement.

It was an oddly intimate thing to do, the Captain realized, a fiercely possessive and strangely old-fashioned gesture. Strangers weren't supposed to be sharing each other's drinkware. Even friends would probably refrain from doing that. No, drinking from the same cup was something only done by lovers.

An almost sacred act, mythical and age-old.

The Captain quickly glanced around the room to check if anyone was watching. But it had been a subtle enough gesture, and Toshiko, Gwen and Owen were far too caught up in their conversation to notice anything. The Captain was just about to exhale in relief when he clapped eyes on Ianto …

The Welshman was sitting across the table now, his slightly narrowed, stormy eyes darting from the coffee cup in front of the Captain to Jack's lips and back again. Then, within a matter of seconds, his face went completely blank again as he schooled his face into its usual mask of indifference.

The Captain had seen the man's look, though, realizing what it meant: Ianto hadn't missed what had happened. Of course, he hadn't. The man noticed everything.

However, what he was thinking about this mysterious act of chalice-sharing was impossible to tell, since his expression didn't betray any of his thoughts.

"Anyway …  just wanted to tell you," Jack said, tipping the brim of an imaginary hat at his second-in-command. "I'll be off. You two, carry on … Everyone, leave Ianto and the Captain to their work!" he exclaimed with one last affectionate clap to the Captain's shoulder and disappeared from the room.

 

  
ΨΨΨ

 

Once the others had left as well, Ianto resumed his lesson, looking as unflappable as ever.

He started by showing the Captain footage of the moon landing, which made the Captain's heart beat faster with excitement. (Hadn't Jack mentioned something about that back on the spaceship?)

Noticing the Captain's curiosity, Ianto told him some more about the space race between America and the Soviet Union, that had apparently been fueled by the Cold War. The Captain was shown a picture of some surprisingly friendly-looking Russian guy, who, years prior to the moon landing, had been the first man in space.

"Are you sayin' that all of these space pioneers were former fighter and test pilots?" the Captain inquired with fascination.

Ianto just gave a curt nod. "Indeed."

Then he went on to recount, in his usual dryly factual manner, the number of crises, wars and genocides that had shaken the world during the second half of the 20th century, leaving the Captain to ruminate about the state of a world that, somewhere along the way, between tolerating air pollution, testing nuclear weapons and becoming dependent on oil, had apparently been messed up pretty badly.

The pictures Ianto was now commenting on in that quiet, restrained voice of his included photographs of closed-down gas stations in 1973 with long lines of cars waiting in front of them. They included pictures of blindfolded hostages at the American embassy in Tehran being paraded around with their hands tied behind their backs. There were dramatic images of a war in Afghanistan (that somehow _wasn't_ the one Toshiko had told the Captain about a few days ago) with Soviet tanks rolling through the streets of Kabul and Red Army troops patrolling the rugged Afghan mountains. There were spine-chilling images of a mustard gas attack in an Iran-Iraq war that Ianto was now telling him about, the sight of gas masks unnerving and far too familiar. There were quasi-apocalyptic images of a nuclear accident near a Ukrainian city called Chernobyl, that looked like the end of time had come … And there were pictures of the infernal fires of Kuwaiti oil wells set ablaze, giant columns of black smoke darkening the sky and blocking out the sun, an eerie scenery illuminated by tall quivering flames, a sight resembling the biblical destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah in a storm of fire and brimstone.

"Is that all?" the Captain asked, his voice sounding weary even to himself.

"Sir?"

"Wasn't there anything positive happening in those decades?"

"The eradication of smallpox and the invention of the super-automatic espresso machine," Ianto replied, his voice full of self-importance.

"Well, praise the Lord for that," the Captain snorted, half sarcastic, half distraught.

There wasn't even a trace of a smile on the young Welshman's face. "It has an integrated coffee grinder."

From there, they quickly worked their way up to the moment the Soviet Union had been ground into dust (yet another thing the Captain hadn't thought possible). And then, at the exact moment that Ianto spelled it out and said, "It collapsed. And that was it," folding his hands on the tabletop and thereby indicating that both the Cold War and their lesson were now over, at this precise moment, the Captain peered at the watch that was glinting from under the man's starched shirt cuff and realized that the thing was showing 8.00 pm precisely.

 

  
  
ΨΨΨ

 

"So, they've never met?" Jack's voice asked.

The Captain was lying in bed, trying to go to sleep, which would have been a lot easier without the whispering voices coming from upstairs, where Jack and his second-in-command were deeply absorbed in a discussion about something. _'They probably think I'm fast asleep down here.'_

"No, they haven't," Ianto's quiet voice resounded from upstairs. "But you know how it is: UNIT is so big. It's not like they all know one another there."

 _'Unit? What kinda unit?'_ the Captain wondered not for the first time, cautiously turning in bed in order to avoid making any noise.

Meanwhile, Jack was speaking again. "Everything ready for her arrival tomorrow?"

"Yes. And Doctor Martha Jones is very welcome in our home," Ianto replied. "I'm still a bit concerned about Copley, though."

"Don't worry. We've waited long enough. He won't make the connection."

"Yes, but … he's a dangerous man, Jack. Are you sure she will be alright at the Pharm? What if her cover is blown and he comes after her with a gun or something?"

"It's okay. She can handle it; she could literally handle the end of the world."

There was a short silence upstairs, and the Captain wondered for the dozenth time if he shouldn't have gotten up and disappeared into Jack's living room to read for a while until they were done with their conversation. If only the bed weren't so comfortable and warm …

"You sure you're okay about that pizza girl, Ianto?" came Jack's whisper from above the Captain's head.

"Y-yes. It's just … No, forget it. I'm fine."

"It's not your fault she got killed, I've told you."

"Still …" The young man's sigh came out long and shaky.

"No. I'm gonna stop you right there. You couldn't have known what Lisa was capable of in that state. You couldn't possibly have understood what danger you had left Doctor Tanizaki and that Jubilee girl in."

 _'What the hell?!'_ the Captain thought. This was definitely beginning to sound more and more like something calling for a little stroll over to the living room.

"Her name was Annie Botchwell, not Jubilee girl," Ianto whispered fiercely. "And isn't it ironic? Unlike in the Book of Jubilees, there was no guardian angel–"

"There _are_ no guardian angels, Ianto."

"Well, then I'm to blame for her death, I suppose."

"You're not, trust me," Jack insisted. "It's perfectly understandable why you did what you did … We've all done stupid things for the people we love, just to save their life."

There was another silence. _'Maybe they're done now. Maybe Ianto'll finally leave and go home,'_ the Captain mused, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand.

But apparently, the two leaders of Torchwood Three weren't yet done with their conversation.

"Anyway … " Ianto continued, his voice steadier now. (It sounded almost as if he were physically pulling himself together to change the subject.) "What have you been smiling about all day?"

"What? … Oh, nothing."

But Ianto wasn't convinced so easily. "Oh, come on, I know you, Jack. And I know there's happiness written all over your face."

"Oh, shut up," the other man grumbled, a little smile audible in his voice. A muffled slapping sound indicated that he had lightly thwacked the Welshman's arm.

The amount of teasing between the two men was astounding, as was the fact that Ianto sounded completely different all of a sudden. His voice was still subdued, but it contained a hint of mischief now. The man didn't seem by far as reserved as he had been earlier with the Captain, his voice having come alive once he was on his own with Jack, a high level of mutual trust evident in their interaction with each other.

"I won't tell anyone, you know," Ianto teased.

"It's not like there _is_ anything to tell."

At this point, the Captain finally decided that it was all getting too personal and that, comfortable bed or not, he probably wasn't supposed to be there. It just wasn't polite.

He quickly got out of bed and and padded over to the living room, where he didn't even read anything, just stared at the Huxley book in his hand with bleary eyes.

When he finally returned to the bedroom on silent feet, Ianto had already left for the night, a faint rustle from upstairs indicating that Jack was working on something in his office.

The warm light of Jack's desk lamp was trickling in from above through the open hatch, and as the Captain was slipping into slumber, he suddenly thought he heard something:1  
  
Apparently, Jack was humming softly to himself at his desk, crooning a slow, vaguely familiar tune, that was strangely soothing and didn't disturb the Captain at all, following him into his sleep.

 _'What song is that?'_ he wondered with a smile on his relaxing face as Jack's warm baritone washed over him.

But he had forgotten this question a mere second later when he had finally drifted off, already lying in the strong arms of Morpheus when Jack started singing the actual lyrics in his quiet deep voice, that lingered in the air like a caress:

"Here goes, looks like I'm falling, call me devil-may-care,  
I know it shouldn't be, but you know me, pal, I'll take a dare.  
Who knows but this time I may be lucky, this may be on the square,  
Here goes, it's an adventure, just call me devil-may-care."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Jack is humming and singing Glenn Miller's classic "Devil may care".


End file.
